


The Alpha and Omega Problem

by HieronymusBox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha Draco Malfoy, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Drinking, Drunk Sex, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loss of Virginity, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Hermione Granger, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HieronymusBox/pseuds/HieronymusBox
Summary: Draco returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year on probation, intending to keep his head down, but as alphas and omegas begin to surface around the school, staying uninvolved begins to prove impossible.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 92
Kudos: 505





	1. Granger, You Stink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my attempt at an 8th year a/b/o Dramione fic. This story picks up pretty directly from canon. I'm interested in exploring the consequences of an a/b/o dynamic in a world where it's not common, and not just using it as an excuse for sex - though rest assured, when there is sex, I will mention it in the beginning notes so you know where to find it :)

During the winter holidays of Draco’s fifth year, he came home and found his home full of Death Eaters. He knew very few of them. 

Draco’s mother kept him away from these new Death Eaters, and she kept the Death Eaters away from him. They stayed in different wings of the manor, the Death Eaters were warned to keep away from certain parts of the grounds that supposedly contained blood curses or beastly guardians. The Death Eaters, many returned from hiding in other countries, amused themselves drinking and snooping and ordering the house elves around. Draco continued to have family dinner with his mother and father once a week, and they pretended the Death Eaters weren’t there. 

Draco cast a heating charm on himself in the foyer one chilly morning after coming in from an early flying practice. 

“Draco,” said a cooing voice. “I thought Cissy was hiding you from us.”

His Aunt Bellatrix stood at the doorway to a sitting room. “I’ve been busy,” Draco said stiffly, propping his broom up against a wall where a house elf immediately apparated and disapparated to take it away. He hurried forward and kissed his aunt’s hand. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Come sit with us,” Bellatrix said. “We’re having _tea_.”

He did not trust the way she emphasized tea, but followed her into the sitting room. A dozen other Death Eaters sat around the room, some the guests of Malfoy manor, and others apparently just visiting. Snape had tucked himself away in a corner. A tea tray bobbed over to Draco. “Is the Master wanting tea or firewhiskey?” asked the high voice of a house elf.

Draco accepted tea. 

“Draco,” said a loud, drunk voice. It was one of the Death Eaters who had been living at the manor. “We were just talking about omegas. Got any omegas at Hogwarts?”

Draco felt himself flushing. “Ah. No. Don’t think so.”

“Look, the poor boy’s gone red in the face,” laughed a rotund Death Eater who Draco had never seen before. “Little Master Malfoy, why haven’t we been seeing you around?”

“So rude of Cissy to hide you away,” added Bellatrix in a sweet, inflammatory voice.

Draco wove his way through the Death Eaters to sit near his professor. Snape didn’t acknowledge him. 

The Death Eaters, many of whom were clearly drunk, quickly lost interest in Draco. “Can mudbloods be omegas?” asked the first Death Eater. “Ever heard of a mudblood omega?”

“Don’t see why not-”

“It’d be an affront to magic,” interrupted a scar-faced man who Draco recognized as Rookwood. “A disgrace. Disgusting.”

“I think it’d be kind of fun,” mumbled that first Death Eater, more to himself than to Rookwood. “If she’s a mudblood, she doesn’t know anything. It’s like deflowering a virgin.”

Draco glanced at his professor to see what he thought of this conversation, but a mask of stone had descended over Snape’s face. 

“Who wants a virgin?” cut in another Death Eater. “Give me a girl who knows what she’s doing. Imagine a needy girl, but multiply it by ten, and you get an omega. Make her a mudblood, Travers, and you might as well dig a hole in the garden and start rutting with the flowerbeds in front of the gardener. All consequences, no fun.”

The Death Eaters fell apart at this. Draco smiled over his teacup, not wanting to be left out of the joke. 

“No alphas at Hogwarts either?” asked the Death Eater called Travers. 

“Um, no, I don’t think so,” Draco said, wishing he were not being addressed. 

“Not even Dumbledore’s golden boy?” Bellatrix asked.

“I’m not his keeper,” Draco snapped, and this made the Death Eaters fall into uproarious laughter again. The conversation meandered away from the topic of alphas and omegas and Draco leaned back into the cushions.

The conversation lulled. “Say, Bellatrix,” said Travers, who seemed unable to let it go. “What if you’d been an omega?”

The room went still. Bellatrix was the only woman in the room. Her mouth tightened and her hand brushed over her skirt where her wand was holstered, and Draco was sure he was about to see a man crucioed. After a long, tense pause, she said, “I would have been honored to serve our Dark Lord in any way he saw fit.”

Later, after the Death Eaters had dispersed, Snape grabbed Draco by the arm and dragged him into an empty hallway. “You need to learn Occlumency,” he hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“Your every emotion takes a stroll across your face like it’s a sunny Sunday afternoon. I’ll be back Wednesday evening for your first lesson.”

It was a sign that Draco didn’t know what was to come that he spent the rest of the day annoyed at Snape for making him do lessons over the holidays. 

* * *

Two weeks back at school for Eighth Year, and Draco wished the Wizengamot had just thrown him in Azkaban. He was open target practice for anyone with itchy fingers and a new curse to try out. Somehow, none of the professors or portraits were ever looking when Draco grew horns, or when he started dancing uncontrollably, or when his ears grew so long he had to carry them with both hands so they didn’t drag on the floor.

“You again,” Madam Pomfrey said. She looked him up and down. “What do you need this time?”

As if he wasn’t practically carrying his earlobes in a basket. “My ears,” he said flatly.

She stared a moment longer. “Oh yes, they do seem rather long, don’t they.” She pointed to a chair. “Sit. This might make you dizzy. Would’ve thought you knew the counterhex for this one, it’s quite elementary.”

“Reversing schoolyard hexes wasn’t part of my Death Eater education,” Draco mumbled. “We rather focused on the more murdery stuff.”

Madam Pomfrey let out a sharp bark of laughter and then covered her mouth as though she hadn’t expected her own reaction. “This was a popular prank when I was in school, but then that was about three hundred years ago, wasn’t it. Spells fall in and out of fashion. _Auris Horreat_!”

For a moment, nothing. Then a slight tightening in his ears, like he had gotten water stuck after swimming, and the room spun and Draco fell out of his chair. 

“Vertigo,” Madam Pomfrey said, sounding mildly amused and helping him sit back up. “Common side effect of spells affecting the ears.” Draco tried to get back into the chair and staggered, grabbing at the air. Madam Pomfrey levitated him into a bed. “This will be over in a few minutes.”

Draco closed his eyes and tried not to think about the swirling. All his insides were smudging together in circles, like he was dead drunk. When he opened his eyes, it was dim in the hospital wing and twilight slanted through the windows. He must have fallen asleep. He looked around, but the other beds were empty. A bar of light spilled out from under the door of Madam Pomfrey’s office. He swung his legs out of bed, testing his balance, and the vertigo had gone away. 

He doubted Madam Pomfrey would appreciate being disturbed just so he could say goodbye. But he felt an odd fondness for the little old witch these days. She seemed to be the only person left in the castle willing to treat him like a person, and not a skulking villain or a walking target. Just as he was about to slip out, he heard a light cough from behind him.

Madam Pomfrey stood at the door of her office, dressed in her nightgown. 

“Sorry,” Draco said immediately. “I felt better, so-”

“You know how to disillusion yourself?” she asked.

Draco nodded. 

“Why don’t you use that more often? I’m far too busy to be attending to you three times a day.”

He looked around at the empty hospital wing. “Yes ma’am.”

She stepped forward and tapped him on the head with her wand, and a sensation like cold egg yolk trickled down his neck, making him shiver. She tucked something into his hand. “Get back to Slytherin before curfew, now.”

Draco nodded, although all she would have seen was a shimmer in the air. “Yes ma’am,” he repeated quietly, and ducked out. It was not worth explaining that the Eighth Years had a later curfew than the rest of the school, that as full adults they could stay out all night without repercussion and leave school when they wished. She probably knew this, he reasoned, and was looking for an excuse to pack him off. 

Footsteps sounded down the corridor and Draco pressed himself to the wall. A trio of girls, fourth or fifth years, chattered about some assignment as they passed him, not sparing a glance his way. The disillusionment must be working. If they had seen him they would have gone quiet and stiff, and hurried by. He had, in fact, already been using the disillusionment charm to wander about the school during odd hours when he needed a break from the empty eyes in the Slytherin dungeons and the anger of the other houses. But there was value to being seen here and there, to being caught by a few jinxes or curses a day. It kept people from asking, _where’s that Death Eater?_ Seeing him punished brought everyone else together in some perverse way. 

And in many ways, he felt it was the least of what he deserved.

He went to the sixth floor and tried to make the Room of Requirement appear again. He repeated this same futile experiment every evening. He didn’t know whether the Room of Requirement had been fully destroyed by the fiendfyre, or whether it had simply locked him out. But he kept coming back up at night to try. Finally, once his watch said curfew for the younger students had begun, he went down to the library where he knew it would be quiet. There were less than twenty Eighth Years who had chosen to return to Hogwarts. Potter, aka the Golden Boy, aka Savior of the Wizarding World, had elected to take an assistant aurorship at the Ministry. 

Draco wondered, if Potter had been back at Hogwarts, whether he would have protected him from the opportunists. Potter had always been stupidly noble like that, and during the final battle he had seen some sort of understanding in Potter’s eyes. Forgiveness, maybe. 

But whatever. Potter was gone, leaving the other two members of the Golden Trio to finish the year as the slightly less shiny Golden Duo. He rarely saw the Weasel. He had several classes with Granger, but they didn’t talk. Draco sat in the back of all his classes, and everyone, including himself, tried to pretend he wasn’t there. 

The library was nearly empty. Madam Pince was nowhere to be seen. Draco settled down at a table near the entrance, his eye on the door, and removed the disillusionment charm. He took a look at the object Madam Pomfrey had given him.

It was a small, worn book. _A History of Schoolyard Spells._ Subtitle: _Children’s Curses and Countercurses Through the Ages. By Arithmea Jones._

He flipped through the book. Its pages bent back easily, and some were dog-eared and had notes in the corners. He flipped to the index and found _Ears_. Subtopics: _color change, hearing loss, size change, transformation_ … He went to the page on size change. There it was, _Auris Horreat_ , along with the reverse spell to make ears grow, _Auris Germinentur_. A note beneath said, _Side effects include dizziness_. A blurb gave an anecdote about a period at Hogwarts in the 1920s when it was so common to have overgrown ears that students started tying their earlobes under their chins like ties. 

He put the book away. There was time to read it later. He needed to do his classwork. 

He worked on his arithmancy. He would have thought the space was empty, but for a sweet, distressed smell from the stacks. He tried to ignore it, but the smell got stronger, and he stared at his parchment until the numbers swam. Was distress a smell? He rose almost as if imperioed, following his nose deeper into the library. He wove through the stacks, trying to pinpoint where this horribly unhappy scent was calling him from.

Sitting at a table by herself with her back turned was a figure with a head of bushy hair. Granger. Draco sniffed again. No doubt the smell was coming from her. Had she been spelled to smell weird? A strange feeling rose within him, a desire to comfort her. He took a step, and then rocked back, wondering what was wrong with him. This was _Granger_. She hated him. She’d testified at his Wizengamot trial, affirming that he had mostly acted out of self-preservation, and then in the lobby after the sentencing she gave him a scathing once over, as if helping him had been beneath her. He had avoided her since.

She sniffed wetly, and again a rush of tenderness almost bowled him over. He clenched his fists. The bubble head charm would be useful right now, except he couldn’t quite remember the incantation. 

Suddenly she jumped up and whirled around, her wand out in front of her. “What are you doing?” she hissed. Tear tracks streaked her face and Draco imagined himself wiping them away.

He held up his hands, and that familiar old sneer settled over his face like armor. “You stink, Granger. I came to cast an air freshening charm.”

“I-” She looked around, her anger faltering. “I don’t stink.” She gave a quick sniff towards her armpit. “I smell fine.”

He leaned to the side, trying to get a glimpse of the book she’d been reading. “What’s the big deal, then? Reading some sappy romance novel? Rosalie Gold’s newest?” They both paused for a moment, taking in the fact that he had admitted he knew one of the most famous romance novelists of the era—and a muggle, no less. “Seriously, I can- I can hear you from across the library. Why’re you so upset? You won the war, didn’t you?”

She stared at him, her mouth chewing over her words as if she had so much to say she didn’t know where to start, and Draco wished he’d stayed at his table on the other side of the library. 

“I’m doing some research,” she said after a moment.

This was unlike her. Usually she took any opportunity to go into depth on her current project. Draco had overheard many sessions in the library where she rambled on about some new interest, while Potter and the Weasel, or Looney or the Weaselette or whoever was with her nodded and mhmed their way towards the exit. Unless-

“Dark magic stuff,” he surmised, backing away. “Right. I’ll get going. Don’t want to expose the former Death Eater to Dark Magic. He might relapse.” He turned towards the stacks.

“Wait!”

Her desperation hit him like a shockwave. He grabbed the closest shelf so he didn’t rush back to her, fall to the ground at her feet and bury his face in her thighs, proclaim that he would do anything for her-

“Have you ever heard of wandless compulsion?”

The distress and sadness was stronger now. Draco bit his tongue, trying to remember the bubble head charm. Slowly, he ground out, “The imperius charm can’t be cast without a wand. It requires…” He breathed shallowly. “It requires precision.”

“What about other charms? Confundus?”

“Someone been confunding you?” he said, attempting to summon his careless drawl. 

“No, I-”

“Granger.” Without thinking he deepened his tone. “Tell me what-”

“Don’t!” she shrieked, and his voice caught in his throat. They both froze, eyes darting around, waiting for Madam Pince to swoop down and tell them off. 

“What’s-” Draco tried again, but his throat didn’t make any sound. She had silencioed him. 

“Ron does this thing,” she said, her voice shaking and her eyes bright with tears, but her hand steady, still holding him at wandpoint. “When he speaks, he’ll tell me to do things and- and I’ll want to do them. I don’t know how he’s doing it. I’ve been writing half his essays for him, and I come to all his quidditch practices even though I hate that stupid game. This morning he said, ‘You know you want to give me your pudding.” I think he was joking, I really do, but I gave it to him, and then we left the Great Hall and I never finished breakfast. And he’s not the only one. Neville asked me to review his astronomy charts and I was going to tell him I didn’t have time, but instead I sat down with him and spent an hour correcting them.”

Draco struggled to place the name “Neville”. _Longbottom_ , he reminded himself. 

“I’m not crazy.” Her voice sharpened. “I don’t want it to continue. I don’t know if they know they’re doing it. But you almost did it too, right now. What’s going on?”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, and then remembered the silencio. He went to pull out his wand to reverse the spell, but she accioed it away with a jerk of her hand. 

“I don’t trust you,” she snarled. She pointed to a muggle notebook on the table. “Write.”

He was loath to step forward, closer into that libidinous fog. The very last thing he wanted was to lose control and force her to stupefy him, and then wake up in the morning to rumors of _Malfoy pawed Granger in the library!_ winging their way around the castle. He shook his head, looking down at his shoes.

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy! I can’t smell that bad.” She threw a charm at him and he flinched, but then he breathed in clean, scentless air. She had bubble headed him. With this it seemed safe to approach, so he gave her a wide berth and bent over to write in her notebook. 

_Have you heard of alphas and omegas?_

“The Greek alphabet? Yes, _Malfoy_ , I’ve heard of it.”

He could no longer scent her, but he suspected if could, he would smell her distress turning to irritation. _Do you know what it means when a wizard is an alpha and a witch is an omega?_

She spent a long time reading this. “Obviously I don’t,” she said haughtily, as if trying to hide the pain of not knowing something. 

_This would be easier if you gave me my voice back_.

She shook her head. 

Draco tapped the quill on the page, trying to think of a succinct way to phrase this. _Becoming an alpha or an omega is a rare trauma response. You should look it up_.

“I will,” she snapped. “Anything else to add?”

No, she had better look this up on her own. She didn’t need a childhood enemy to explain it for her. It would be better for her ego, he thought sourly. _Wand?_ he wrote.

“I’ll owl it to you.”

Once upon a time Draco might have argued, might have tried to swagger or even grab his wand off her. She was so small compared to him now. He could just press her up against the table and feel down her side until he had a wand in his hand, and even though she had two wands he didn’t think she would stop him. His saving grace was that it was past curfew for all but the Eighth Years. He could easily slip down to the dungeon now, even without a wand to defend himself. Granger was many things, but he knew she wouldn’t go back on her word. Come next morning, she’d return his wand.

 _Right_ , he mouthed, and turned away. He was sure she would watch him until he had left the library, which he did quickly, scooping his things off the table by the entrance. He hurried to the dungeons, and was met with another problem—he couldn’t say the password to get in. He sat down on the chilly stone floor, resigned to wait. The prefects would finish their rounds and have to let him in eventually. 

So Granger was an omega. And he had smelled it. He was an alpha. 

She had gotten pretty over the years, hadn’t she? And that year on the run had made her rather fit. She wasn’t as bone thin as she had been at Malfoy Manor last spring—her screams suddenly echoed through his mind and he hated himself, struggling to throw up occlumency barriers. Occlumency, for him, had always been a frantic, desperate thing, like being faced with a raging grease fire and trying to remember whether or not water was the answer. No, water would only make it worse. He quieted the fire, and Granger’s agonized shrieks faded to gentle happy moaning. He imagined her underneath him, writhing in pleasure. _She doesn’t know anything_ , said a nasty voice from somewhere in his memory. _You could be the one to teach her_. 

She had been crying, though. Not knowing scared her. This softened his half-hard erection immediately. He wasn’t going to be like _those_ Death Eaters. 

Another thought occurred to him. Longbottom and Weasley were both alphas as well now. How many other students had returned to Hogwarts after the trauma of battle, and not realized what they had become?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! All non-canon spells are Google Translated Latin.
> 
> Update on Thursday Jan. 7th. :)


	2. I Pour Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wanders all over Hogwarts, he holds hands with Hermione, and Pomfrey is Mom.

Draco woke to shooting stomach pain. He had missed breakfast. Technically, he could have gone down to the Great Hall and sat with the other Slytherins and food would appear before him, like it did for everyone else. But he never dared go to breakfast proper; he darted in just as the doors to the Great Hall opened in the morning, buttered himself some toast, and ate in a quiet wing of the castle. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t be hexed until lunchtime. 

Lunchtime. He groaned. He had herbology during lunch hours today. He wouldn’t eat until dinner, then.

Remnants of his fitful sleep came back to him. He had dreamed of a clever girl with a bright smile, a girl whose affection he wore like armor. He would protect and teach her, and she would love him and make him less empty. He had kept waking himself up, expecting to find her in his arms. She reminded him suspiciously of… Granger.

He sat up with a start, throwing his blankets off. Had she figured it out yet? It was inconceivable that she hadn’t. Where would she be this morning? The library? Did she have class? Why did he care so much? This last thought slowed him down a bit. Granger wasn’t his responsibility, and she could take care of herself. No doubt she would appreciate being left alone by the most notorious and reviled student in the school.

Draco dressed slowly. He had the Eighth Year Slytherin boy’s dorm to himself. Theo, Blaise, and Goyle had all chosen to lay low in the aftermath of the war. Draco would have done the same if his probation had allowed it. None of the Slytherin girls from his year had returned either. The Prophet decried Draco’s sentencing to repeat his final year at Hogwarts, calling it too light, but short of being sent to Azkaban, Draco couldn’t think of any worse punishment. He wanted to be done with Hogwarts, done with Britain, done with Europe. Towards the very end of the war he had started entertaining ideas of escaping to America, someplace completely different where people didn’t know about the Sacred Twenty Eight or the pureblood fanaticism that drove the war. 

“Hello?” Draco said, testing his voice. The silencio had faded. His stomach dropped—Granger had said she would owl his wand. The owls didn’t come to the dungeon, so he would have to go to the Great Hall to pick it up. 

He threw on his uniform and moved quickly through the halls, taking the less-used routes that were now familiar. A few first or second years passed him on their way out of breakfast, but no one tried to stop him or hex him. His heart hammered as he approached the Great Hall and the roar of students filled the corridor. 

He swallowed hard, and threw back his shoulders. The Malfoy name still carried water. He swept into the Great Hall.

The roar died to a whisper. Draco paused impressively at the entrance to let everyone see him. He spared a glance over to the Gryffindor table, where Granger sat between Weasley and Longbottom. She didn’t meet his eyes. After giving the room a long, haughty appraisal, Draco took his seat at the end of the Slytherin table, and breakfast appeared before him.

People were still staring. His own housemates peered down the table, apparently dumbfounded by his presence. There was nothing to do but pretend he was comfortable, and to eat. His stomach had contracted from nerves and he was no longer hungry, but he forced himself to butter some toast and take a bite. _Yes_ , he thought, smirking a bit at all the curious faces. _The famous Draco Malfoy eats._

But, looking around the room, he saw a scattering of newspapers, and students here and there read their personal letters. The mail and come and gone. He kicked himself; he should have gone straight to the owlrey. 

No point in dragging it out. He dropped his half-eaten slice of toast and got up. 

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. 

A curse went flying behind his head. He whirled around and saw a Slytherin with her wand out and her friends grinning evilly. None of the professors reacted as though they had noticed, continuing their conversations in low voices or reading the paper. 

She looked familiar. He curled his lip in her direction and stalked over. She and her friends tensed, waiting for him to pull out his wand. “No doubt you’ve won yourself buckets of favor from the other houses with that,” he hissed. 

“It’s not about the other houses,” she said primly. “It’s about you.”

Her friends all smiled in that simpering pureblood manner that Draco knew so well from his own mother’s face. The smile was the mask. 

He searched her face, and the haughty tilt of her chin reminded him of someone from his year. “Daphne Greengrass.” 

“My sister. I’m Astoria,” she responded. “You’re making a scene.”

All the other houses watched, riveted. The odors in the hall were everywhere: curiosity, fear, disgust, excitement, and from this girl in front of him, nothing. Draco looked around, disoriented, like surfacing from underwater and finding the sky too big and bright. A desire to sit down nearly buckled his legs. 

_Prepare yourself, said Snape, peering down his nose at Draco, who sat on the floor. The muscles in Draco’s arms and legs spasmed. Slow down, he wanted to beg. Snape drew up his wand in an elegant arc, and this was the only preparation time he ever gave. Draco threw himself into his image, I pour oil on the raging sea to calm the waves, I pour oil on the raging sea—LEGILIMENS._

Anger and fear and embarrassment splintered away. “Next time,” Draco said coldly to Astoria, “you’d better not miss.” He turned on his heel and left the Great Hall. 

As he stalked down the corridor, he heard light footsteps running after him. Without sparing a glance, he walked faster.

“Malfoy, wait!” Granger called. “I have your wand.”

He stopped, holding out a hand. She returned his wand to his hand, and without missing a beat, he kept going. 

“Wait,” she said again, panting. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what,” he grunted, still walking, forcing her to half-jog beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed this made her breasts bounce. _I pour oil…_

“The alpha and omega thing you mentioned last night. I barely found any reference to it in the library. The medical books say it’s an uncommon trauma response that’s usually seen in the aftermath of war. But there’s no explanation of what that means. Malfoy, will you slow down?”

He scanned the corridor to make sure they were alone, and stopped under a portrait of Redford the Bloody, with his watchful six eyes. “Why are you chasing me? Why didn’t the _Brightest Witch of her Age_ go talk to Madam Pomfrey?”

“You think that wasn’t the very first place I went this morning?” Granger asked, her eyes blazing. “Madam Pomfrey doesn’t know any more than the medical books. None of Ron, Ginny, or Neville have heard of alphas or omegas either. You’re the only one who seems to know, so unless you’re making it up, I want you to tell me what it means.”

“My family library might have the information you want. What’ll you give me in return?” Draco gazed down at her. Somehow they had gotten to be standing very close. She smelled like fresh parchment and rose-scented hair product; she had drunken pumpkin juice at breakfast and she was soaked through her knickers. He should spin her around and flip up her skirt and take her right there in the corridor. She was practically begging him to. Just as his hand reached for her waist she jumped away, putting several feet between them. Draco clenched his fist, forcing it down by his side. _I pour oil…_

“What do you want?” she asked in a chilly voice, studying a patch of wall near Draco’s knees.

 _Come to bed with me_ , sang some filthy animalistic part of his brain. Something was very wrong with him; he didn’t think of Granger like that—really, he didn’t. Draco veered rather too hard in the other direction. “Will you tutor me in runes?” 

Merlin’s beard. He didn’t even take runes anymore, he had only said it because there was a runes textbook sticking out of the top of her bag. “I haven’t seen you in runes before,” she said. 

Thinking fast, he said, “I’m in the sixth year class.” Thinking too fast. A classic mistake.

“...Right. How soon can you get these books?”

Her skeptical tone of voice was inappropriate. Omegas were supposed to submit, to believe their alpha’s every word. A dark impulse flashed through Draco’s mind. _Grab the back of her neck. Then she will have to submit._

He cleared his throat. “Tomorrow. I’ll have to owl home to get some books that talk about alphas and omegas. Let’s meet in the library around seven. Unless- unless you’re busy?” Draco swallowed and tried to collect himself. 

She pulled out her planner and flipped through. Everything was color-coded, how in character. “I’m free.” She marked him in: _7PM Draco Malfoy_.

“See you then,” he said, attempting to regain his trademark careless attitude. “I’m not going to come to breakfast tomorrow. I’ll address the books to be dropped off with you. When they arrive, they’ll be wrapped up. Don’t unwrap them. All the books at the Malfoy Manor library are cursed to burn m- uh, to burn muggleborns. Bring it to the library and I’ll lift the curse for you.”

“Hey! ‘Mione! Ready to go to practice?”

Weasley’s voice echoed down the corridor. Granger stuffed her planner into her bag, backing away from Draco with panic in her eyes.

“Oi, what’s he doing here? _Incarcerous!_ ”

Draco dodged the binding curse. “See you,” he grunted, and dashed down the hall in a fully undignified manner. Weasley’s footsteps pounded behind him, and Draco ducked around the corner and cast the disillusionment charm on himself. 

“Bugger,” Weasley said, returning to Granger. “I don’t know where he’s gotten off to.”

“Leave him alone, will you?” Granger asked. “He was just-”

“Why was he bothering you in the first place?” Weasley put an arm around Granger’s shoulders. Something possessive bristled in Draco’s chest and a curse jumped to his lips. _I pour oil…_ Fighting violated his probation. He reminded himself that the only reason he was suddenly interested in Granger was because she smelled nice. 

“He was asking about runes homework,” Granger said.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days? Stay away from him, he’s bad news.”

She pulled away from him. The irrational, possessive beast roared inside Draco. “Honestly, Ron. I don’t see the point in treating him like a Death Eater lurking in wait. He’s not going to do anything that could get him in trouble, we all know he’s one wrong move away from a cell in Azkaban.”

“Really.” Weasley bounced on his heels and grabbed Granger again, rubbing his thumb across the smooth back of her hand. “Now there’s an idea.”

* * *

_Dear Pibs,_

_Please ask Timothy to find the books in the library on alphas and omegas and owl them to “Hermione Granger”. The books must be wrapped in paper._

_Thank you, Draco_

Pibs was the only house elf in the service of Malfoy Manor that could read. Draco rolled up the note and his eagle-owl Astraea hooted in his ear, clacking her beak. “Bossy bird,” he said, patting her head gently and avoiding her ear tufts. Touching her ear tufts always meant a sharp nip on the fingers. “I need this delivered by tonight.”

She hooted again. 

“Yes, I should visit you more often,” he murmured, pressing his nose against her soft feathers. “When you get back I’ll find you some fat little mice. Real mice, not transfigured teacups.” He tucked the note into her ankle carrier. “Take this to Pibs, alright?” 

She took off from the owlrey, dropping into the empty air outside the castle. An updraft caught her outstretched wings and she lifted up into the sky. Something in Draco’s heart ached. If only… 

He scented the rival before he saw him. 

“Woah, woah.” Longbottom raised his hands to show he wasn’t holding his wand. “Just sending a letter.”

They studied each other, sizing each other up. Longbottom was no longer that round-faced little boy. He had a hardness to his posture, weariness born of war. 

“Writing off to your auntie for more sweets?” Draco purposely knocked into Longbottom as he passed and sent the rival alpha off balance.

“Hey,” Longbottom said, squaring up. “What’s your problem?”

“What isn’t my problem these days? Gonna hex me too, Longbottom? I’m sure there’s virgin ground on me somewhere. Don’t think anyone’s got the back of my knees yet.”

Sadness, rather than the expected aggression, crinkled Longbottom’s eyes. “I wouldn’t-”

Draco slammed the door of the owlrey behind him and rushed away. He needed to be someplace else, somewhere that wasn’t so high up, anyplace would do as long as it didn’t remind him of his plans from Seventh Year to grab his broom and sneak to the owlrey and-

_“You’re not trying,” Snape said in that infuriating drawl that Draco strove to mimic. “The Dark Lord will cut straight through you and leave you a gibbering fool. If you cannot control your emotions then you will never control your mind.”_

_Draco’s forehead shone with sweat. He wiped his eyes with a trembling hand. “M-m-maybe if you gave me some time-”_

_“The Dark Lord will not give you time. At no point when you need Occlumency will you have time to sit down and gather your thoughts. Now throw away that useless image of a sea, I’m tired of seeing it. Think of something new.”_

_Draco focused on his mother, sitting in the garden on a warm spring day with a cup of tea, the steam rising from its surface and spinning and spinning and spinning…_

“Draco, my boy, is everything alright? How can I help you?”

Draco focused blearily on his Head of House. His feet had taken him to Slughorn’s comfortable office down in the dungeons. “Professor Slughorn,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“No problem, absolutely no problem at all.” Slughorn bumbled about his office, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if there was any space in the sixth year Ancient Runes class. I’d like to take it.”

“Ancient Runes, hm?” With a wave of his wand Slughorn summoned a file from the closet. It fluttered and fell open to a page with a picture of Draco as a young boy clipped to it. The young Draco sneered at the camera and turned to say something to someone outside the frame, before turning back and sneering again. Slughorn scanned the sheet. “You passed Ancient Runes in your sixth year with an Exceeds Expectations. You want to repeat the class? This won’t cover the material you need for the NEWT.”

“The NEWT doesn’t matter to me,” Draco said, hoping that Slughorn wouldn’t ask him to explain. “I just want to take the class.”

“Ah, yes, well…” Slughorn studied Draco’s file with great intent, studiously avoiding looking at Draco. “I suppose I could ask Professor Babbling. I can’t make any promises, of course. Two weeks into the term she may not be up to accepting new students.”

“Of course,” Draco said. “I fully understand. I appreciate your help.”

“Any time, my boy!” Slughorn waved his hand and the door to the office swung open. “Off you go, now.”

Draco rolled his eyes as he left the office; Slughorn clearly thought he was a bomb whose fuse was lit by eye contact. Doubtful his Head of House would get anything done. Draco should have gone directly to Professor Babbling, she was polite and straightforward. Importantly, he hadn’t taken her class during his disastrous Seventh Year, and perhaps she did not have such a horrible opinion of his character. 

Not, he conceded, that a horrible opinion of his character was wrong. 

* * *

Sketching in Herbology was one among many things that could sour Draco’s day. He wasn’t terrible at it but he found it so dreadfully boring, and his Holsterflower kept moving, finding new positions to settle in. No one else’s blasted Holsterflower was being such a pain. 

Draco assigned his unusually terrible mood to the sight of Granger and Longbottom sitting shoulder to shoulder, one table over, sharing a Holsterflower. Longbottom nudged her and pointed to their Holsterflower as it stretched and yawned, and Granger grinned. She took a feather and tickled the plant. The plant shivered and went to sleep.

Right. Draco stared at the feather he had been given. He was supposed to do something with it. Glaring around at nobody in particular, he brushed the little plant with the feather. It tensed and he tensed as well. 

“WHO can tell me where the Holsterflower fits into Garnelda’s Catalogue of Species?” boomed Professor Sprout. 

Draco’s Holsterflower jumped.

“Prot-”

The shield came too late. Black ink splattered Draco’s face. He threw an arm up to no avail, and his classmates tittered.

“Mr. Malfoy, you must not have been soothing your Holsterflower. Did you do the readings before class?”

Draco pressed his lips and eyes closed to keep the ink out and didn’t answer.

“Oh well,” Professor Sprout said. “Five points from Slytherin, and I expect this is a lesson in NEWTs students being well prepared. If you’d done the readings you’d know that Holsterflower ink is indelible once it dries, so it must be treated wet, and preferably we would avoid encountering it at all. Luckily you have several hours before the ink dries, Mr. Malfoy. Let’s have someone take him to the hospital wing, Poppy is prepared with a solvent. A volunteer, please? Miss Granger, thank you very much.”

He felt a small presence next to him. Draco’s face went hot and red under the ink. 

“Malfoy, I’m going to take your hand.”

He’d rather stumble blindly around the castle than hold hands with Granger in front of the Seventh and Eighth Year Herbology class. But he couldn’t even open his mouth to protest. A warm hand slipped into his, and he let Granger tug him off the stool and lead him through the greenhouse. 

“There’s a step down here,” she said, and he carefully stepped out of the greenhouse. Warm light fell across his face. A light breeze ruffled his hair. Today would have been a beautiful day for flying. 

This was not how he had imagined holding hands with Granger. The Holsterflower ink had no odor, and he could smell her rose-scented shampoo and now the earthy fragrance of the greenhouse and that smell of arousal. Merlin, did Granger walk around with soaking knickers all the time? Didn’t that get uncomfortable?

“So you didn’t do the readings,” she said.

“Hm?”

“Holsterflower ink isn’t toxic. You can wipe off your mouth.”

“Mm.”

“Your shirt’s already done for, it’s got ink all down the front. Might as well use your sleeve and wipe your mouth.”

Draco wiped his mouth and the first thing out of his traitorous lips was, “You smell good.”

“Excuse me?” She dropped his hand. “You’d better not try anything. I’ll _silencio_ you if I need to.”

“I- no, that’s not what I meant. Your shampoo smells nice. That’s all.” He held out his hand. “Will you…”

“Actually, I offered to walk you to the castle because I wanted to talk to you.” Granger’s voice had taken on that know-it-all tone that she used to lecture her friends. “This alpha and omega business. What is it really? Why can you and Ron and Neville use it to compulse me, but I can’t compulse you? Can you compulse anyone else? Is it just us that have changed? Is it a physiological change or a magical change? It is caused by a spell? Is it a curse? Why do wizards become alphas and witches become omegas? When did it start? Are there other side effects or is the compulsion the side effect and how-”

“Merlin, Granger.”

“My name is Hermione.”

Draco almost laughed. “I don’t know the answer to most of those questions.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, missing with his right hand and trying twice. “Listen, all I know about alphas and omegas is that it’s something to do with boosting post-war reproduction. That’s why witches and wizards change differently. And-” _And sex with an omega is supposed to feel amazing_. “-and you’ll have to get the rest from the books. I sent for them this morning.”

She was quiet so long he had a sudden worry that she had left him. Finally she said, “I can smell you too.”

“Yeah?” Draco grinned. “What do I-”

“I can also smell Ron, and Neville, and I’m not sure but maybe Ernie as well. I’m starting to think we should go to McGonagall.” She slipped her arm through his and they continued walking. “Step up, we’re at the front door.”

“You have a way of making everything unsexy,” Draco muttered.

She sniffed. “Now that we’re inside the castle I’m sure you can find your way to the hospital wing by feeling along the wall. You have about three hours before the ink dries. I don’t want to leave you, but if you’re going to make crude come-ons, I can tell you right now I’ve been getting more than enough of those from Ron and I’m quite tired of it. If you’re incapable of holding your tongue, I’m happy to _silencio_ you.”

“Charming as ever, Granger. Fear not. I shall be a perfect gentleman.”

They walked for a minute. “Oh no,” Granger said.

“What?”

“Ron’s down the corridor. He’s about to get all smothering again.”

“Disillusion me.”

“Didn’t you read the textbook-”

“Obviously not-”

“Holsterflower ink obstructs the disillusionment charm. Turn around and walk the other way, maybe he won’t recognize you.” She spun him around and he put his head down and shuffled awkwardly. 

“Hey, ‘Mione, thought you were in class right now.” 

“Sprout sent me to Madam Pomfrey for some Holsterflower solvent.” She had moved down the corridor, directing Weasley away. 

“Some what?”

“The Holsterflower is a semi sentient-”

“I don’t really care,” Weasley said, and his voice became strange and deep. Draco recognized this, it was the same thing he had almost done in the library last night. Alpha compulsion. 

“Sorry, of course,” Granger murmured. Their voices were getting farther away. “You should be studying right now, I set up your schedule…”

“Can you not nag…”

And she left him. Draco reached out, expecting to touch a wall, and finding only more air. He grabbed his wand, readying a defensive spell, and took another unsteady step towards what he hoped was a wall. His fingers touched canvas.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to grab a lady’s garden without permission?” said a nasal voice.

He had brushed up against a painting. Many paintings disliked being touched; it dirtied their canvas and over time dimmed their sight. “Where am I?” Draco asked, pulling his hand away.

“You’re standing under Klenella’s garden party,” said the painting. “What happened to you?”

The figure in the painting must not recognize him. He was sure the paintings had been instructed not to speak to him, because they usually went silent when he approached. A sly thought occurred to him. “Draco Malfoy threw ink in my face.”

“You poor thing!”

“He’s very mean,” Draco added. “Don’t you think so?”

“I was always telling Sherrie that boy was a bad seed. How could you not be, with a family like that?” Draco’s stomach turned over. “When he first came to Hogwarts I thought there was hope for him, he was a spoiled little boy but maybe being away from home would do him some good. I suppose he did grow out of his bullying phase, but he was always a mean, selfish creature. Dumbledore, rest his soul, asked the portraits to keep an eye on the boy two years ago. Some of us never got out of the habit. It’s hard to look away from a young man so clearly set to destroy himself…”

Draco swallowed hard and moved away from the portrait, his fingers tracing a low path on the wall. Perhaps the canvas would split open like torn flesh under _sectumsempra._ The portraits didn’t know anything. They were hollow shells that filled their days with gossip and voyeurism, frozen in time.

He lifted his hand to his face, not quite touching his skin. The stains would never come off. His eyes burned. Was he risking permanent blindness? He should have read the stupid textbook; he didn’t know where he was and he couldn’t see and it was like flailing underwater and not know which way was up. No matter what he did, he kept swimming downwards, and where the hell had Granger gone? _Swirling steam. Mother on a spring day in the garden. Occlude…_

“Malfoy, I’m sorry.” Draco whirled towards Granger’s voice. “I got rid of Ron as quick as I could.” There was something else in her tone, some sort of unhappiness. She did not say how she had gotten rid of Weasley. “Is everything alright?” She sounded hesitant. 

“Yeah,” Draco snapped. “Why?”

“You look like… nevermind.” 

“No, say it.” 

“I-”

“Don’t hold back, Granger, tell me what you think of me.”

Draco thought perhaps he was verging on being a bit cruel, but he was past caring. He knew she blamed him for everything that had gone wrong. If he hadn’t let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, Dumbledore would still be alive, and Potter wouldn’t have had to fight the Dark Lord. She loved Potter, a fact that made Draco’s chest hurt, because there was no one in the world who cared about him the way Granger cared about Potter—not because she was related to him, not because she had to, but because she chose to. 

“I was going to say you look like you were crying. Is… is the ink irritating your eyes?”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

She took him by the hand again, and the tension in his chest eased. _The smell of roses, and mother’s garden, and swirling steam, and Granger…_

They arrived at the hospital wing. “Goodness,” Madam Pomfrey said. “What now, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Holsterflower ink,” Granger explained, before Draco even opened his mouth. 

“Of course. You may go, Miss Granger.”

Granger tried to pull away. “Malfoy, can you-”

A small, plaintive voice said, _If you leave me I’ll fall apart._ But he let go. The door to the hospital wing opened and closed, and Draco assumed Granger was gone, leaving an ache in his chest, like an organ had vanished. 

“You have no one to blame but yourself for this one,” Madam Pomfrey said from across the room. “Unless someone else squirted ink at you.”

“No,” Draco agreed, twisting his lips. “Both Sprout and Granger have informed me that this is all due to the cardinal sin of not reading the textbook.”

“Lesson learned, I should hope. Alright, unbutton your shirt, let’s make sure none of the ink went down your collar. This will be cold.” She dabbed a cool paste onto his face. “I see you got it in your mouth. I’ll have to pack your cheeks with potion-soaked cotton so your teeth and gums aren’t stained. This is a slow acting solvent. You’ll be here a while.”

* * *

It was past dinner when Madam Pomfrey let him open his eyes and spit out the foul-tasting cotton. She made him shower and brush his teeth in the hospital wing bathroom, and he redressed in his pants and his outer robe. His uniform shirt was, as Granger had said, done for. He buttoned up the robe so as not to offend Madam Pomfrey. Although she had seen many an unclothed chest while treating students, she deserved the respect of a fully buttoned uniform otherwise. 

His stomach rumbled and the half slice of toast he’d eaten for breakfast flashed through his mind. How he now wished he had eaten the whole slice. 

Pomfrey met him at the door to the bathroom. “Looks like the solvent did its job. Open your mouth so I can check your teeth. _Lux.”_ She shone her wand in his mouth, standing on her toes. “It looks good.”

A horrible groaning noise came from his stomach. “Sorry,” Draco said immediately.

She smiled. “I expect you’re hungry. I was just about to take dinner in my office. Care to join?”

Draco pressed his lips together.

“Come on.” She opened the door to her office and ushered him in. Draco had never seen the inside of her office, and found it warm and spare and filled with golden light. Where he expected a desk sat a small table and two chairs. A plate of steak and greens steamed on the table, and the room swam as the world narrowed to that single plate of hot food. “A second plate, please!” The second plate appeared, and without waiting for permission he collapsed into a chair and started wolfing down the dinner. A second serving appeared and he scarfed this too. Madam Pomfrey watched him with a twinkle in her eyes as she cut into her steak. 

She didn’t try to make conversation. Draco could have cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I write ahead, this is turning out to be less hot omegaverse masturbation fodder, and more slowburn about Draco having sadboi hours. Apologies to all who read these fics for the hot Dramione moments. When I’ve got more of a backlog of chapters, I’ll try and publish more often so that the slowburn doesn’t feel so damn slow. Cheers y’all. Next up: Hermione POV
> 
> Update on Thursday, Jan. 14th. :)


	3. The Alpha and Omega Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny reveals a secret, Anthony Goldstein makes a move, and Dramione study together like the two sexually repressed nerds they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a short scene that might seem a tiny bit like dubcon. If you would like to skip this, stop reading at ** and pick back up after the scene break. I will put a summary at the bottom.

“Blimey, more textbooks? What class are they for? I thought all the time turners broke—d’you have time for more classes in your schedule?”

Hermione detached the package from the eagle-owl, avoiding its talons. The package was wrapped in brown paper and had _Miss Hermione Granger_ written on it in flowing script. “These are for my personal research.”

“Don’t start.” Ron speared a whole slice of french toast on his fork. “Don’t even tell me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, miffed, and slid the package into her bag. “That’s all, thank you.” The eagle-owl blinked politely, and then flew off with the rest of the birds. “You don’t need to act like hearing about my research will kill you. You might even find it relevant.”

Ron spoke around a mouthful of french toast. “I only came back because Mum is making me. If I had my way I’d be applying for the same assistant aurorship as Harry right now. Heard from him, by the way?”

“I think he’s in the field.” Ginny slid in across the table. “You know how he writes these days. Dear Ginny.” She mocked a serious deep voice. “Can’t say much but the auror training keeps me busy. Hope you are taking care of yourself. Might not be able to write for a week. Affectionately, Harry.”

Hermione smiled. Harry had taken to signing all his letters _affectionately._ She didn’t know where he had picked it up. 

“I think Kingsley is ghostwriting for him. His letters are so redacted he might as well throw a bottle of black ink at the page,” Ginny complained. “Hermione, don’t you have a free period before your next class? Want to come study with me? Slughorn’s assigned an essay, of all things.”

“She can’t,” Ron cut in. “She’s coming to quidditch with me.”

“Don’t be a prat, Ron, Hermione hates quidditch.”

“But she likes watching me play. Don’t you?” Ron turned earnestly to Hermione, and that familiar dreadful feeling enveloped her. _I mustn’t displease Ron._

The word _no_ was on the tip of her tongue. One simple word, a single syllable, touch her tongue to the roof of her mouth behind her teeth and let it slide out, _no, no, no._ “I love watching you play,” she chirped.

Ron threw an arm around her shoulders and shook her lightly. She grinned and her stomach fluttered. “You’re the best.” He jumped up, knocking his knees on the table and making everyone’s drinks wobble. “I’ll go change. Meet you on the pitch in ten.” 

The moment Ron left, something collapsed inside Hermione, like all the strings holding her up had gone loose. She swallowed hard and took a shaky sip of pumpkin juice. 

Ginny tilted her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. “So… is there something you and Ron want to tell me?”

“I’d- I’d better start heading down.” She buttoned her bag and folded up her newspaper and stood, but Ginny stood as well and chased her to the entrance of the Great Hall.

“Hey, is everything alright? I was joking about you and Ron. Seriously, I know you hate quidditch, I’ve seen you bring books to the games. Hermione? You look really pale.”

“I’m being a good friend,” Hermione said. “I- I-” She looked around the Great Hall. No one was paying attention to them, but she gestured for Ginny to follow her out into the corridor where it was quieter. Ginny frowned, and she smelled like concern. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. No, concern wasn’t a smell. She sniffed again, leaning closer. Ginny had rubbed peach-scented lotion onto her hands before coming to breakfast, and she had brushed her teeth with a cinnamon flavored paste. She had a caramel in her pocket, her robe still smelled faintly of Molly Weasley’s detergent, and that impossible scent of concern and confusion was intensifying.

“Uh, Hermione? You know my shoulder’s here for you to cry on, but sniffing my neck is a little, how should I put it, weird?” Ginny backed up a step and Hermione blinked, falling out of the world of scents and back into the corridor outside the Great Hall.

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I did that,” she exclaimed. “There’s something strange going on, I don’t know where to start-”

“You can smell it too.” Ginny’s eyes widened.

“Smell what too?”

“Everything and everyone,” she hissed, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Perfume, what they ate for lunch, whether they’ve diddled themselves recently, I can smell it all. I’ve turned into a freaking human bloodhound. There’s a psychic element too, it’s like I can smell what they’re _feeling._ I thought I was going bonkers. Your shampoo smells nice, by the way, can I borrow it?”

“Uh… yeah, any time.” Hermione checked her watch and turned toward the front door. “Do you want to walk to the pitch with me? I don’t want to be late.”

Ginny grabbed her arm. “Forget Ron, we need to talk about this.”

“I have to go,” Hermione said, pained. “I really do, I can’t let Ron down.” She sensed that if she didn’t do what Ron wanted, all the strings holding her up would be cut, and she would fall to pieces. “Come with me, please? We can talk on the way.”

They left the castle and Hermione shivered. The leaves shuddered on the trees and the wind cut through her robe. She cast a heating charm on herself, and Ginny did the same. 

“Remember how I asked you yesterday if you knew anything about alphas and omegas?” Hermione said. “I read in an old medical book that sometimes, in the aftermath of war, wizards and witches of a certain age will… present. The wizards become alphas, the witches become omegas. It’s something to do with magically boosting reproduction rates, but it’s not a well-studied phenomenon. The last time it happened in great number was during the Haley-Coulson feud of 1824.”

“The what?”

“Some obscure American land feud between wizarding families.”

“If it’s a post-war thing, why didn’t it happen after the defeat of Grindelwald? Or for that matter, after the first defeat of Voldemort? And what does it _mean_?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione explained in brief the compulsion that Ron and Neville could do, leaving out the part about Malfoy. “I don’t think they know they’re doing it.”

Ginny contemplated this as they climbed the stands to find a spot sheltered from the wind. “The other day,” she said slowly, “Justin told me to lick his arse—I told him the Falmouth Falcons’ seeker couldn’t catch a snitch if it landed in his hand—and there was a moment where I really wanted to do it. Like, I imagined getting down on my knees and giving his arse a big wet sloppy kiss.”

“Ew.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t do it.”

“No,” Ginny admitted, sounding sorry she couldn’t better sympathize with Hermione’s situation. “Neither Ron or Neville have made you do anything, like, weird, right? I know Ron’s had a crush on you since sixth year. I’ll kick his arse and then write Mum to come kick his arse if he does anything you don’t want.”

Hermione smiled dimly. They sat next to the announcer’s podium. “It’s all the same stuff he’s always wanted me to do. Essays, homework help. I don’t want to make waves. I need to get through this final year and take my NEWTs. Ron’s being Ron, I can handle him.”

“Why don’t you tell him what’s going on? He’d stop.”

“I’m waiting for the right moment. You know him. The way he reacts to news is contingent on the way he receives it. I’ll do it soon, when I know more about this alpha and omega thing. I’ve got a… research session planned tonight. With Malfoy, of all people.”

“Sorry, I must have misheard, I thought you said Malfoy, as in Draco Malfoy?”

“The very same. I ran into him in the library. He’s… also an alpha.”

Ginny turned to face her, eyes wide and watery from the wind. “Hermione. You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s a Death Eater. Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” she said. “He’s the only person who knows anything about the alpha and omega thing. Even Madam Pomfrey hasn’t really heard of it. He’s sent me some books from his family library, but I need him to uncurse them for me before I can read them.”

“Let me come with you,” Ginny said seriously. “I don’t want you to be alone with him. When are you meeting?”

“Seven tonight.”

“I have practice from six to eight. Could you move your meeting?”

“I’ll be fine! I doubt Malfoy will pull any moves, he’s one wrong step away from Azkaban. I don’t want to delay our meeting.”

Ginny opened her bookbag and set out a sheet of parchment on her knee. “If there’s anyone I trust to figure this out, it’s you. But you’ll keep me updated? And you’ll be safe? Don’t get too close to him, don’t turn your back on him.”

“Of course—oh Merlin, there’s Ron.”

Ron shot up into the sky and did a showy loop. “HERMIONEEEEEE!”

Ginny shook her head. “Sloppy. He needs to keep his knees in.”

* * *

Hermione arrived at the arithmancy classroom early and transfigured her quill case into a pocket mirror. The wind had brought pink to her cheeks and made a bird’s nest on her head. She finger-combed her hair, catching knotted strands on her fingers and accidentally yanking some out. The strands made a loose clump on the desk. With a groan, she vanished the clump and tied her hair back in a messy ponytail.

A seat scraped on the floor and she tensed, hand tightening around her wand. “Anthony, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Anthony Goldstein gave a sorry grin and dropped into his chair a few desks down. “I’ve been told I move quietly. I should be noisier, I know lots of us have still got the war-jumpies.”

“Muggles call it PTSD,” Hermione said, transfiguring her quill case back and setting out her notebooks.

Anthony unpacked his bookbag as well. “Yeah, my mum’s mentioned that. Ah, what’s it stand for. Post Trauma Soldier… Defense, something like that?”

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Post Trauma… yeah, that. War-jumpies is easier to say.”

“I suppose.” Hermione focused on dating and titling the page on her notebook, and the class filled up. Arithmancy was a hard enough subject that not many students bothered to take the NEWT level, so the seventh and eighth year classes had been combined. Padma Patil sat down next to Hermione, smelling of sweat and something else. Hermione glanced over. Padma’s hair, usually neatly brushed, looked mussed, and her cheeks were dark. She caught Hermione’s eye and grinned. “Hey, Hermione.”

Hermione gave a faint smile. They were friendly longtime acquaintances. “Morning, Padma. You look… bright today.”

“Really?” She sounded out of breath. “I was just-” She looked over her shoulder. Hermione looked back as well. “No, don’t look!”

Alarmed, Hermione looked harder. It was the regular class: Anthony Goldstein, Padma Patil, Justin Finch-Fletchey, Hannah Abbott, and a half dozen or so seventh years whose names she hadn’t figured out yet. Way in the back, skulking and practically oozing malcontent, slouched Malfoy. “What, what’s going on?”

“Look forward!” Padma whispered, her voice slightly giggly. “It’s me and Justin. We- well you can guess.”

Hermione certainly could. Now she knew what that other smell coming off of Padma was. She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “Oh—my very hearty congratulations.”

Before Padma could dish any more salacious details, Professor Babbling strode in and dropped a heavy book of runes on the desk. “Professor Vector has been called out and asked me to fill in for her today.” The class erupted with whispers. Subs usually meant an easy period. “She’s given me eight worksheets for you to complete in pairs. Each pair will get a different sheet, so I don’t want to see the class trying to pool answers. When you’re done you can go. Pair up!”

The whispers grew louder and more excited. Hermione turned to Padma. “Do you want-” 

Padma had already turned to Justin. Being deprived of her usual partner left Hermione open to everyone else. Anthony and Hannah Abbott came up to her. 

“We can split up the sheet and get out of here faster,” Anthony offered.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s trying to use you,” Hannah said.

Professor Babbling came over, handing out the worksheets to pairs. “What’s going on here? We can’t do a group of three, we’ve got an even number in this class. Miss Abbott, Mr… You two pair together. Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy still needs a partner.”

Malfoy glared from over in the corner. Hermione grabbed her bag and brought their worksheet over, sitting as far as she could from him while still able to see the worksheet.

“Shall we split it up?” she said, setting out her notebook to copy down the problems, and determinedly not looking his way. 

Malfoy gave a stiff nod, and started working on the second problem. They calculated for a few minutes as the classroom became quiet—most of the other pairs were splitting the work as well—and then Malfoy murmured, “Did you get the books?”

Hermione nodded.

“Do you still want to meet at seven?”

She could have laughed; Grindelwald himself couldn’t have stood between her and these books. “Of course.”

They finished their problems and flipped the sheet over. The third question required them to use their work from the first two questions. “I’ll do it,” Hermione said, reaching for Malfoy’s equations. 

He yanked his parchment away. “We can do it together.”

“It’ll be faster if I do it myself.”

“That’s not fair,” Malfoy said, his voice getting low.

Warning bells rang in the back of Hermione’s mind. Against all instincts, she peevishly said, “I’ve been doing more than my fair share of the work my whole life.” She waited for the mental blow—these days if she was snappy at Ron, he pulled her strings taut and made apologies spill out of her mouth.

“I meant it’s not fair to me,” Malfoy said. 

Hermione pursed her lips and shifted her chair closer so they could both read the paper. He leaned towards her, and well he was rather large, wasn’t he, like sitting shoulder to shoulder with a boulder. Perhaps he had grown over the summer, and it was something to do with being an “alpha”. She wondered what it would be like to be held by someone so large _._ Warm and safe and small. He was being rather civil right now. He was excellent at arithmancy, too, not asking her to slow down or explain things, sometimes making logical leaps even before she did. They were the first pair to finish. Anthony and Hannah handed in their worksheets immediately after.

**Anthony grabbed Hermione by the arm in the corridor outside the arithmancy classroom. “Hey, got a minute?” She looked down at the hand on her arm, and he released her sheepishly. “Sorry, got afraid you’d run off and I didn’t want to miss my chance.”

Down the corridor, Malfoy had paused, apparently rifling through his bag.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said politely. “What can I help you with?”

Anthony laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. The air filled with a spicy, electric scent that filled Hermione’s head and made her woozy. A bolt of lightning shot down to her groin. She reached a hand out towards the wall, needing to feel something cold and real. 

Anthony didn’t notice her reaction. “Everyone’s always academic with you, huh? That’s what I like about you. I was wondering, ah, if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade this Friday.”

Hermione blinked several times in a row, shifting her weight, trying to chase off the ache between her legs. “What?”

“With me, I mean! Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

“When—now?” Hermione asked foggily. 

Anthony stepped into her space and she almost melted, tilting her head back to allow him access to her neck. “Yeah, now, anytime you want. You smell… good…” He lowered his nose to her neck and she moaned, the spicy smell getting stronger, the emptiness between her legs gaping, aching to be filled. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Malfoy growled, grabbing Anthony by the shoulder. “No one wants to see two nerds go at it in the hallway.”

Anthony started and swung at Malfoy, but Malfoy already had his wand out and threw a shield up in front of him. Anthony’s fist smashed into the shield and he yelped, shaking out his hand. The fog seemed to lift from his eyes and he backed away, his eyes wide. “Wait, I didn’t mean to- Hermione, I don’t know what’s-”

Reality struck Hermione. If Malfoy had not intervened, she was sure she would have spread her legs and let Anthony fuck her right there against the wall. “I’d better go,” she said, and hurried away, stickiness rubbing between her legs.

She turned down a corridor with open windows. The windy day, such an annoyance before, now blew away all the spice and confusion so she could breathe again. She slumped against a pillar, wiping sweat from her forehead. The desire to be filled didn’t go away, and neither did the desire to sob. It was like going through puberty again, except at least during puberty she could read all of the _You and Your Body, a Girl’s Guide to Growing Up_ books. Her hands itched to unwrap the books in her bag; she didn’t care whether they were cursed to burn her. She considered looking for Malfoy and begging him to uncurse the books now so she could start figuring out what was wrong with her, but the idea of moving, much less going back towards the arithmancy classroom, made her faint and shaky. Finally, a group of seventh years turned down the corridor and she forced herself to stumble back to Gryffindor tower. She flopped down in her bed, shut the drapes, put her hand down her pants, and came almost immediately.

* * *

Hermione arrived at the library ten minutes before the appointed time and found an empty table in a secluded corner. She laid out her notebooks and her Ancient Runes textbook, lined up a quill and ink pot, and placed the package wrapped in brown paper to the side. This took less than one minute. She straightened her quill, then opened her planner and began needlessly reviewing for the upcoming week.

“May I sit here?” asked an airy voice.

“Oh—Luna.” Luna had already sat down. “I’m actually waiting for someone.”

Luna smiled graciously and stood back up, her orange peel earrings swaying. “We should get dinner sometime. I haven’t seen you at all. I miss having Harry around.”

“Yes, we should get dinner,” Hermione agreed. She fidgeted with her quill, running her finger up and down it. 

Luna lingered a moment longer, that odd smile still on her face. “I hope our paths cross again soon, Hermione.”

“Yes, I hope so too.”

Luna drifted away. Hermione jiggled her leg and tapped her foot and reread the introduction to her Ancient Runes textbook. Harry had always been so fond of Luna, and Luna had been a good friend to Harry. Maybe she should suggest Harry write to Luna. But Hermione hadn’t heard from Harry since the beginning of term, and his letters all summer had been weirdly brief and empty. Now she understood how he had felt the summer that she and Ron had stayed at Twelve Grimmauld Place. Even knowing Harry had a legitimate reason not to write, it stung in some petty place that he didn’t make an exception for her. 

Malfoy emerged from the stacks and hovered behind the chair across the table. His fingers wrapped over the back of the chair. “Are we going to talk about what happened with Goldstein?”

“We are not.”

He sat, and pulled the paper package towards himself, unwrapping it without a word. It contained one large volume bound in dark blue fabric, and a dozen thin leather volumes that looked more like notebooks than books. Malfoy glanced up as if to make sure she was watching, and then, one by one, he pressed the tip of his wand to each book and whispered a long incantation. When he was done he stacked the books, passed them back across the table, and made to leave.

“Where’re you going?”

“You don’t need me here for this,” he said, robotically addressing the stacks behind her. “When you’re done with them, pass them off in one of those classes we have together.”

She wanted him to stay. She had been expecting him to, she had mentally prepared herself for a study session with Malfoy, even made light of it to Ginny in the common room. “Weren’t we going to do Ancient Runes after?”

“You think you’ll read all those in forty-five minutes? Not even wonder-Granger can do that.” 

“We made a deal,” she said, “and I’m not going back on it. I’ll work on these for forty-five minutes, and then we’ll do Ancient Runes for forty-five minutes. Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take these books back, study them in my room, and return them to you when I’m done.”

His jaw ground back and forth. “Fine.” 

Hermione did her best not to pay attention to what he was doing, and ran her fingers over the large tome, waiting for her flesh to burn. The cover was fine, old bookbinding fabric. It didn’t hurt her skin. She heaved the book open and read the title page.

_Magickal Maladies Known to Those Pure of Blood_

_By Madeline Malfoy_

She found the section on alphas and omegas, and quickly understood what Malfoy had meant about “boosting post-war reproduction”. Omegas were super-fertile and had heightened sex drives; alphas were super-virile likewise. They were meant to pair together—Madeline used the metaphor of lock and key, which Hermione found a bit regressive. She called this pairing a “bond”, which could be sealed by a mating bite to a gland on the back of the neck. There was no description or picture of where the gland was located, and Hermione absent-mindedly felt around the back of her neck for lumps or glands.

“Don’t do that,” Malfoy said sharply. She looked up. His pupils dilated, turning his eyes dark and uncanny, and a muscle worked up and down his jaw. Arousal spiked off him. 

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I forgot. That’s what Anthony did, isn’t it? He rubbed the back of his neck and activated a pheromone reaction.”

“Please don’t talk about Goldstein right now.” Malfoy sounded genuinely strained.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Hermione asked lightly.

“Don’t talk about other alphas while you smell like that. It makes me want to do… bad things.”

Hermione would rather have faced a dementor than had this conversation with Malfoy. “If you can’t control yourself-”

“You’ll stupefy me. I know.”

Unsure if he was hinting at an off-color joke, Hermione returned to the book. The next section went into “heats” and “ruts”, week long periods of incapacitatingly heightened libido, which sounded both awful and ridiculous. Heats happened every three months except during pregnancy. Periods were painful and annoying, but at least they didn’t literally incapacitate her. 

Heats were negative motivation, she concluded. Most omegas, after experiencing one or two heats alone, would find an alpha to lessen the pain, which would inevitably lead to pregnancy—although perhaps modern birth control methods could work around this. Alphas didn’t have regular ruts, but would begin one after scenting an omega in heat. They would either attempt to spend their rut with the omega, who could match their libido, or they would have to spend it with several people over the course of several days. _It’s a win-win for reproductive rates,_ Hermione thought wryly. _But it sounds miserable._

The entry on alphas and omegas ended with heats and ruts. There was no explanation of compulsion, or heightened olfactory senses, or the circumstances that led to presentation. 

She marked her place and closed the book. The thinner volumes were unlabeled and she chose the one on the top of the stack. Its pages were as thin as onion skin, and covered in elegant, dark script that bled through to the other side of the page and made everything difficult to read. She checked the inner cover. _Journal de Madeline Malfoy._ With a sinking in her stomach, she looked closer at the first entry. 

_Je pense que les chevaux doivent être examinés avant l'arrivée du froid…_

They were in French. Hermione had taken French in school before Hogwarts, and made attempts to keep up with it during the summers, but now wished she had put in more effort. Nothing on the page mentioned alphas or omegas. The entry appeared to be about readying the stable horses for winter. She flipped further ahead. Madeline wrote about having her friends over, about redecorating the house, about being bored and tired all the time. Hermione paused on this last entry, but Madeline didn’t enumerate the causes of her melancholia.

“Who was Madeline Malfoy?”

“She was my great great great aunt, a million times removed or something.”

“Was she an omega?”

“I don’t know. She lived through the Regency.” Malfoy had put his feet up on the table and rocked his chair back on two legs. 

Hermione chewed her lip. “Get your shoes off the table, no one wants to work where your dirty feet have been.”

“These shoes cost more than you spend in a year, anyone would be glad to sit where they’ve been.” But he put his feet on the floor. He was working on a piece of parchment propped against his knees, sketching what looked like Saturn’s rings.

“What classes are you taking?” Hermione asked politely. 

“Astronomy, herbology, arithmancy, potions, ancient runes. And, uh, muggle studies. Court ordered.”

She had been there on that hot summer day at the Ministry. Malfoy had sat in an iron chair before the whole of the Wizengamot, and irrationally, she had been nervous to testify. She hadn’t had pre-test jitters in years, but usually when she took tests it didn’t decide the fate of someone’s life. He hadn’t looked at her once during the trial. 

“Yes, it’s very funny, the former Death Eater learning about muggles,” Malfoy said. “Get out your giggles now.”

“I wasn’t going to laugh.” Hermione tried to meet his eyes. “The wizarding world is very small, compared to the muggle world. Muggle studies is meant to prepare you to move through the muggle world. I’m always disappointed more students don’t take it. Ah, why don’t we work on ancient runes now?”

Malfoy looked like he was about to argue, but instead he picked up his chair and moved it around to her side of the table. She had been expecting him to stay on the other side, with a nice sturdy table in between them, and found herself overly conscious of his presence, like her skin tingled where it was closest to him. 

It was pheromones, she reminded herself. Physical attraction doesn’t mean anything. 

She brought him through the first chapter of the textbook, focusing on theory and runecraft. She kept staring at his fingers as he twirled his quill, trying not to imagine them inside of her. It was like trying not to think of elephants. At the end of their allotted time, she said, “Shall we meet on Friday? Are you busy then?”

“My social calendar is completely free,” he said flatly.

“Right. Um. I’ll mark you in for seven again, then?”

He started gathering his things. “Sure.”

He managed to make the _sure_ sound like _no,_ and the implicit rejection stung. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I’ll be working on these journals on my own time, and I’ll return them to you as soon as I’m done. You can… send me your essays to check, and we’ll call it even.”

A hot flush colored his face. “I don’t want that.”

“Well then would it hurt to act a little more like you want to be here?” Hermione’s voice rose to a slightly hysterical pitch. She took in a deep breath through her nose. “This research is relevant to you too.”

“I know it is,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you on Friday, Granger.”

Hermione huffed. He would be easier to deal with if he were outright aggressive. When he acted almost like a normal human, she couldn’t read his game. “Goodnight, Draco.”

His flush deepened and he ducked into the stacks, leaving behind a whiff of something that Hermione might have called pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the “dubcon” scene: Anthony Goldstein asks Hermione to go on a date with him. He accidentally triggers some alpha pheromones, and they start sniffing each other in the corridor. Draco breaks them apart and Hermione runs off, confused and upset. She goes back to her dorm and masturbates. There is no real “aggressor” in this scene—both Hermione and Anthony Goldstein are made the victims of hormones they don’t know how to control.
> 
> Next up: “The Alpha and Omega Thing (Anthony Goldstein Edition)”
> 
> Update on Sunday, Jan. 17th. This is more an interlude than a real chapter - the next real chapter will be on the following Thursday.


	4. The Alpha and Omega Thing (Anthony Goldstein edition)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Anthony Goldstein end up alone in a room and hammer out a deal concerning Hermione.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you’ll stay after class,” Slughorn rumbled as he passed by Draco’s cauldron.

Justin Finch-Fletchey peered over. “Got yourself in trouble again, Malfoy?” Finch-Fletchey hissed. He elbowed Goldstein. “The Death Eater is in for detention.”

Draco focused on stirring his potion. Counterclockwise thirteen and a quarter times exactly, and the potion began to simmer. Seemed right. He sprinkled in a pinch of powdered ashwinder skin from the blade of a silver knife, and set a two minute timer with his wand. 

“Is it true that you can’t take any wand magic classes as part of your probation?” Finch-Fletchey asked, the malice clear in his voice. When Draco chose to recheck the heat of the flame under his cauldron rather than react, Finch-Fletchey stage-whispered to Goldstein, “I heard they designed a special trace for the Malfoy line. If he does offensive magic he’ll have the aurors on him faster than you can say _lux._ That true, Malfoy?”

The potion roiled, its bubbles popping and releasing belches of silver steam. Draco checked his timer and reviewed the instructions for the Botanic Philter. Nowhere did it mention silver steam, but part of the day’s lesson was in interpreting vague recipes. He decided to lower the heat, and as he bent down to remove some of the kindling, the foot of his stool jumped.

He teetered off balance and instinctively grabbed his cauldron for balance. It tipped forward, the boiling potion splashing out towards his robes, and he just had time to think, _at least I will get to see Madam Pomfrey today._

The potion froze in midair, and then wound its way, sinous, back into his cauldron. Baffled, Draco looked to his hand. He was sure he was not causing this. Finch-Fletchey gaped as well. Goldstein had his wand out, guiding Malfoy’s potion along. The last drop plopped cheerfully into the cauldron, and Goldstein turned back to his own potion as if nothing had happened. 

The liquid had lost its shimmer while being thrown out of the cauldron, but it was not entirely ruined. He finished the potion, coming up with a passable reproduction of the half-described end product, and bottled it for Slughorn. Slughorn gave homework instructions as the Eighth Years cleaned and stored their cauldrons, and Draco lingered by the front desk until he was alone in the room with his professor. 

“You wanted to talk to me, sir?”

Slughorn frowned as if he forgotten he’d asked Draco to wait. “Yes, yes, indeed. I have good news for you, Professor Babbling has space for one more. Her class meets Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to three—grab a quick lunch, she’ll be expecting you this afternoon.”

Draco nodded, almost bowing, to hide his grin. “Thank you sir.”

“Any time, my boy…” Slughorn bumbled towards his office. Draco checked both ways down the corridor to make sure it was clear before he left the classroom. 

Goldstein leaned against the wall outside the classroom door, examining his notes. Draco put his wand up, a defensive spell at the ready.

“Chill, Malfoy, I’m not going to attack you,” Goldstein said, still looking at his notes. “Can we talk?”

“Not if you’re going to ‘talk’ to me the way you ‘talked’ to Granger.”

Goldstein folded the parchment and stuffed it in his bag. “If this is the way you act towards everyone, I can’t say it’s surprising people keep hexing you.” A group of girls appeared at the end of the corridor and Goldstein nodded towards the empty potion classroom. “Mind if we?” They moved into the classroom. Goldstein leaned against a stool and Draco stood by the door, his wand still at the ready. “ _Muffliato._ ”

A buzzing noise filled the room, and then died. “What’d you just do?” Draco asked, his eyes narrowed. The classroom, once big enough to hold a dozen NEWT students, felt paradoxically too small for two alphas.

“It’s a version of silencio. Harry taught it to Dumbledore’s Army in Fifth Year. It lets us have a private conversation without others listening in.”

“Hate to break it to you, Goldstein, but I’m not into blokes. I’m flattered, though.”

“Haha. I wanted to offer a truce. I’ll get Justin to leave you alone, and you don’t talk about what happened yesterday.”

“You talking about the part where you got handsy with Granger?”

Goldstein shot up, his hand on his wand, and paced between the desks. “Listen, I don’t know what happened with Granger. I wanted to ask her to go to Hogsmeade with me on Friday, not cop a feel in the corridor. For all I know, you imperiused me to make me look like a fool.” The desks started rattling. “I don’t lose control, I’m not that kind of guy. When I broke up with Tracey we stayed friends. All I’m asking is you keep your mouth shut about what happened and I’ll keep Justin off your back.”

Draco eyed the rattling desks. From across the room he scented anxiety rolling off of Goldstein. “Looks like you’re losing control right now.”

Goldstein put his wand in his pocket and the desks went still. He ran his hand through his hair. “Have we got a deal, or not?”

“What would you do if I started telling people you came onto Granger and she ran away crying?”

“She wasn’t crying!” Goldstein exclaimed, and the desks started rattling again. “She wanted it as much as I did. It was like we were possessed, it was weird! I don’t want it to happen again, I swear on Rowena Ravenclaw.” A loud pop made them both jump. One of the desks had cracked down the middle. “Shit. _Reparo_.”

Draco inched toward the door and considered his options. Granger had already talked to a bunch of her friends, so he supposed there was no reason to treat it like a secret. “Goldstein, have you ever heard of alphas and omegas?”

Goldstein stared blankly. “Er… the first and last letter of the Greek alphabet?”

“No.” Draco checked the corridor, even though Goldstein had said he used a privacy charm. “It’s a… post-war thing. Witches and wizards of a certain age might become omegas or alphas. It’s designed to, uh, motivate wizarding folk to, uh, pair off.”

“Why’ve I never heard of this?”

“Have you heard of every obscure magical malady and condition in the world?”

The question was rhetorical, but Goldstein shook his head. “And it forces us to, what, go at it like rabbits?”

“More or less.”

Goldstein curled his lips. “That’s barbaric. What’s the cure?”

“There’s no cure.”

“Like hell there’s no cure. Let’s talk to Pomfrey and-”

“Granger’s already done that. Pomfrey’s barely heard of the alpha and omega thing.”

The odor of anxiety had given way to a calmer confusion. “You’re an alpha too,” Goldstein said, sniffing experimentally. “Weird. You smell like-”

“Merlin, Goldstein, I don’t want to know. I told you I’m not into blokes.”

“You say that an awful lot for someone who’s not into blokes. How many of us are there?”

“Weasley, Longbottom, maybe Macmillan. Those are the alphas I know of. The only omega I know is Granger, but there’s probably more.”

Goldstein was back to pacing. “We have to get together. We need to talk about what to do, we need to-”

“Great idea,” Draco snapped. “Two alphas in a room and you nearly explode a desk. I’m sure five alphas will go much better. Granger is working on this and you should trust her. They call her the Brightest Witch of her Age for a reason. If she figures anything out, she’ll tell you. Until then, I want you to stay away from her.”

“Didn’t know you cared so much about Hermione,” Goldstein mumbled. 

“I don’t.”

Goldstein rolled his eyes. “Alright, sure. Do we have a deal? Your silence, my protection?”

“This isn’t the bloody mafia. I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway.”

Goldstein actually laughed. “Man, Malfoy, we should’ve been friends. It’s a shame you were so preoccupied with being a racist, classist prick.”

Draco pressed his lips shut even as his stomach sank to the level of his knees. What was there to say to defend himself against an accusation that was basically true? 

“I’ll see you around,” Draco said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this! It is a canon part of the story. I want to update twice a week all the time, but I’d run out of chapters too fast. There’s a 90% chance I won’t do any personal writing during the semester so I’m limited to what I get done over the next couple weeks. As always, thanks for reading! The upcoming chapter is my favorite to be published so far.
> 
> Next up: “Words That Hurt People” 
> 
> Update on Thursday, Jan. 21st.


	5. Words that Hurt People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has run-ins Astoria and Luna, and shares a melodramatic moment with Hermione while cosplaying as a traffic light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story finally earns its explicit tag… There’s a male masturbation scene between the first and second scene break. It’s fairly short, and there’s no dub/noncon, but as always, a summary of what happens will be at the bottom of the chapter.

Whispers and conspicuous sideways glances filled the Ancient Runes classroom as Draco sat down in the back row. Whoever’s seat he was stealing would just have to deal with it.

“Good afternoon!” Professor Babbling swept in and slammed a thick book of runes down on her desk. “Mr. Malfoy, we have assigned seats, please come sit in the empty chair next to Miss Greengrass. Alright class, I’ve had three cups of coffee so I hope you’re ready to write. The homework focused on three general rules of the medieval runic script, but rules are made to be broken, can anyone give me an example of an exception to the rule of second cross? Miss Jones, thank you-”

Astoria looked over her shoulder and raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. Hadn’t the last thing he’d said to her been “ _Next time, you’d better not miss_ ”? He couldn’t imagine her missing from three feet away. Draco knew everyone was waiting to see whether he moved seats, and a spotlight seemed to shine down on the empty seat in the second row, as if a choir of angels had popped up and were singing _come meet your doom_ in four part harmony.

“-all supposedly stemming from a single scribe with bad handwriting in the fourth century. Mr. Malfoy, any day now, you’re disrupting the feng shui of the classroom and I can’t teach properly when my room is off balance. One popular late nineteenth century theory proposes that this scribe had certain agenda-”

Astoria gave him a “come hither” finger and tapped the desk in front of the empty seat with a long red fingernail. He grabbed his bag and dropped into the seat, tossing his stuff on the desk and baring his teeth—though he did not bare his teeth at her. Everything about her dripped with danger. Draco tried to focus on scribbling down Babbling’s mile-a-minute lecture. He remembered that Babbling talked fast, but after a year off from her class he had forgotten her frenetic energy, and he found himself struggling to keep up. 

“-due to the resemblance to the Chi Rho, which I doubt any of you have heard of. Here is where you will all wish you took muggle studies more seriously, because I am about to condense a major turning point in Western history into one baffling minute, or forty five baffling seconds if I talk fast enough-”

His inkpot fell over, blotting out half his page. Draco glared around, searching for the culprit, but everyone had their head down, furiously scribbling in their notebooks. Even Astoria seemed to be trying to record Babbling’s explanation of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge. He pulled out his wand and tapped the page, whispering, “ _Charta Aridam._ ”

“No wands in my class Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure you remember,” said Professor Babbling. “Twentieth century discoveries make the Chi Rho theory fall apart, because several examples of the type of writing stick the scribes used were discovered…”

His notes were ruined. He tore the page out and started fresh on the next one. He thought perhaps he saw Astoria smile. 

While he generally hated admitting that idiots like Finch-Fletchey were right about anything, the prick had gotten vaguely accurate information on one thing: Draco wasn’t allowed to cast any offensive spells. But he was itching to set her notebook on fire, to prove he wouldn’t let himself be attacked without retaliating. Babbling swept in and grabbed his wand without missing a beat of lecture. She was now going on about experiments with Chinese chopsticks, which she was convinced no one in the wizarding world had ever heard of. Draco doubled down on his notes, seething. By the end of class his hands ached, and he saw several other students stretching out their fingers as well. Babbling returned his wand, and the moment she had gone into her office, Draco snarled, “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You’re the one who can’t keep an inkpot steady,” Astoria said. 

Draco let out a long breath through his nose and closed his notebook deliberately. Astoria twirled her wand. Draco’s hands shook, and suddenly he was back in Snape’s office, trying to pick up his wand and ready himself for the blow of legilimency. Snape raised his wand, except he was no longer carrying a wand, he was carrying an icepick, and he slammed it through Draco’s eye. Draco flew backwards as if tugged by a string attached to the small of his back and landed outside his parents’ bedroom the day after arriving home for summer break after Fourth Year. 

He hovered at the door as his father collapsed sobbing on the floor, dark mark bared and fingers white-knuckled around his Death Eater mask. His mother begged his father not to go, offering to put on the mask herself, and Draco was frozen in place—he thought of shouting for Pibs (though how could Pibs possibly help), and he thought of marching in and grabbing the Death Eater mask and bravely proclaiming he’d do it himself, but the large part of him wanted to run away and pretend he’d never seen it. Then Snape slid the icepick out with a pitiless surgeon’s hand and ice in his eyes, and Draco was back in the Ancient Runes classroom, 

Several students had paused their packing to watch the confrontation. _Occlude._

“What, the Death Eater can throw around Unforgivables, but he draws the line at hitting a girl?” Astoria sneered. “What they say about you Malfoys is true.”

Draco didn’t wait around to find out what exactly people were saying about the Malfoys now. He made it out of the classroom and around the corner before he started running. He didn’t dare think about where his feet were taking him until he burst into the owlery and several dozen owls all startled at the same time, hooting their displeasure and making a show of tucking their chins into their chests and going back to sleep. 

He found Astraea tucked in her nook. “Hey,” he murmured. Astraea blinked sleepily at him and cooed. “I forgot to bring the mice—sorry.” 

Astraea hopped onto his hand, and he sat down on the straw-lined floor and patted her head. 

He began to talk mindlessly. “Are the aurors nice to you when they search my correspondences? Ever been searched by a wanker called Potter? I’ll describe him for you. His forehead’s got this big famous scar and his hair has never met a comb in its life. He’s got an enormous hero complex, probably to make up for having a tiny dick, and he thinks he’s got some moral authority because he was born on the right side of the war. Although… these days I’m coming to think maybe he’s got moral authority because he’s been a good person.” He looked down as if she had contributed to the conversation. “No, you’re right. He’s a total wanker.”

Astraea pressed her forehead against his chest and sighed. He wrapped an arm around her, hugging her gently. 

“Maybe I should think of you when I try to occlude,” he mused. “You, snoozing away in the owlery, dreaming about chasing mice—hey!”

She flapped her wings and hopped out of his grasp. Betrayal lurched inside him, and then a sweet, pungent scent reached his nose and he scrambled to his feet, wand out.

“Sorry,” said the intruder airily. “I didn’t mean to disturb you and your pretty owl. I like watching people talk to their pets when they think they’re alone. Someone who’s nice to their pet can’t fully be a bad person. What’s your owl’s name?”

The intruder was a blonde girl with messy hair and pale, strange eyes. The scent coming off her reminded him of Granger, but it was more overripe. “Lovegood,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. He cleared his throat. “You were spying on me?”

“A nargle took my maple leaf garland. I followed it down this way, and I saw you run in here. I thought maybe you were chasing it too, so I came in. You were being so sweet to your owl that I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He gulped, turning his face towards the fresh air blowing in from the window. “A nargle?”

She tilted her head from side to side, appraising him. “Draco Malfoy.” In her mouth, his name sounded like a lilting spell. “I stayed in your house last year. Your dungeons could use some renovating. The whole time I was there, I thought they would benefit from some soft chairs and better lighting. Perhaps some heating as well. It was very hard for Ollivander down there.”

Draco felt his face go cold. Finally, he stammered out, “W-well, they’re not exactly meant to be comfortable.”

“One wonders why a country manor even has dungeons,” she said. “Never mind. I don’t hold it against you. I was at your hearing this summer, I believe everything Hermione said about you.”

“Uh, yeah. About that, I’m sorry-”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Like I said, I don’t hold it against you. You never told me your owl’s name?”

“Um. Astraea.”

“Oh, how lovely.” She held out her hand and to Draco’s complete disbelief, Astraea fluttered down and settled there. “Astraea, the Greek goddess of purity and justice. That makes quite a bit of sense for you.”

With a graceful sweep of her arm, she pushed Astraea into flight. Then she left the alcove, taking her pungent sweet smell with her, and the fog in Draco’s mind cleared. “Wait!” 

She turned back towards him, a friendly smile on her face. “Yes?”

“Do you know you’re an omega?”

“No—what’s an omega?”

Draco thought he might melt from embarrassment if he had to explain the alpha and omega thing to Luna Lovegood. “You should talk to Granger about it.”

Her smile faltered. “Yes… I’ll do that. Although Hermione doesn’t seem to want to talk to me these days. It’s been lonely since Harry left.”

Draco did not think he was the right person to be confiding in. “Ah, well. I’m sorry about that. Um, this alpha and omega thing…” He sped through an explanation in the least explicit terms possible. He thought he might have to obliviate himself when he got back to his room. 

Lovegood took it in stride. “I wonder why it happened after this war, but not after the first wizarding war. Or after the defeat of Grindelwald.”

“That’s the question of the hour.”

“And it’s happening to other students in the seventh and eighth years?”

“Yes—probably. Don’t let anyone… use this against you,” Draco said gruffly, studying the pattern of hay on the floor. “You should really talk to Granger. Bye, Lovegood.”

“You can call me Luna, you know! All my friends do.”

“...Right. Luna. I’m going to get going. Don’t spy on me.”

“I won’t,” she said brightly. “Now that we’re friends, I’ll just come say hi.”

* * *

It occurred to Draco, as he stared at his arithmancy homework and tried to gather the will to do it, that there was no part of his probation that stipulated he do well in school. He dropped his quill, splattering tiny drops of ink across the parchment, and leaned back in the chair, hanging his head upside down. The eighth year Slytherin dorm flickered in the candlelight, the four empty beds dusty and draped in shadows. Slughorn could easily have had the extra beds removed. But he chose to leave them; for all his affable bluster, he was a Slytherin, and the empty beds were by design. 

He flipped back up, giving himself a head rush. The arithmancy homework lay smugly on the desk. “Fuck off,” Draco grumbled, closing his eyes. A small presence settled beside him, and turned the paper towards herself. 

_Draco, you need to keep your mind sharp,_ Granger said. 

“I’ll dissolve into a heap of goo if I want to,” he mumbled.

_What will you do with your time if you don’t do your homework? You haven’t joined any clubs. You’re banned from flying. You don’t have any friends._

“If you’re going to be bothersome, be sexy while you do it.”

_This really isn’t that hard. You were always good at things, when you tried._ She ran a soft hand down his arm to his wrist and drew a circle on his palm. _You saw how I looked at you when I realized you understood arithmancy._

“How did you look at me?”

_Open your eyes and you’ll see._

He pressed his hand against his groin, rubbing his half-hard erection through his pants and canting his hips slightly. The imaginary Granger stood and traced a finger up his arm, putting her head over his shoulder and leaning over him from behind. _Eight years a witch and there are still things I don’t know._ She ran her hands down his chest, and he turned his head and imagined her scent, sweet and savory, a candy begging to be bitten. _Draco, why don’t you let yourself feel good?_ He unzipped his pants and pushed himself away from the desk, stroking his erection and imagining her kneeling down between his knees. 

“Do you know what to do? Put your mouth on it.”

She peeked up at him through her lashes, and innocently kissed the tip of his erection. He gasped, and came so hard he buckled, his abdominal muscles rippling and tensing. 

There was cum on his desk. He vanished the cum before it got sticky and hard to remove, and closed his eyes, already sleepy, waiting for himself to soften as the aftertremors phased through him. A minute passed, and he was still hard. He looked down.

“What the fuck.”

There was a bulb the size of a clementine at the base of his penis. It was like a tumor. He touched it and shuddered, doubling over. More cum spurted on the desk, and some got as far as his arithmancy homework, like his penis was pressurized. He vanished the cum again only to spurt on his wand in the middle of the vanishing. Each time he came, his penis ached, like he was being wrung out. “ _Accio tissue._ ” He wiped his wand and examined the penile growth. He came again while staring at it, and his balls were starting to feel sore and empty. 

He imagined trying to fit this new growth into his pants and waddling to Madam Pomfrey to explain he was having a men’s problem. Thereafter he would always be a sexual deviant in her eyes.

Fifteen minutes passed and he came six more times, each time ejaculating less. The base of his penis began to shrink. The growth hadn’t appeared when he masturbated last night. The only circumstantial change between this time and last night was that this time he had been explicitly thinking of Granger… oh. 

It was part of the alpha and omega thing. Waves of sleepiness rolled over him, and although it was early, he put out the light, tucked his wand between his mattress and his headboard where it would be inches from his hand, and was asleep within minutes. 

In his dreams, the Great Lake glittered in the moonlight. The surface of the water unzipped and a hand emerged from its depths. _Take the sword of Gryffindor, Draco._ He waded into the split, pushing through the void as though through water, stretching towards the glimmering sword. Just as his fingers closed around the hilt, he looked down and recoiled. The hand holding the sword was attached to Astoria’s body. She grinned at him with razor sharp teeth and lunged for his neck.

Potter swept down on his broom and snatched the sword. Suddenly Draco was chasing Potter through the clouds, and then he was back in the arithmancy classroom, and Hermione held his hand under the desk, running her thumb back and forth over his. Then she was lying in bed with him, pressing her forehead to his chest, and he held her tightly and promised to always protect her. He looked down, and she was no longer Hermione, but a blonde with a dreamy smile and an overripe scent, and he rolled over and woke up, a pit in his stomach. 

“Lux.”

Under the dim wandlight, he pulled out a scrap of parchment and a quill, and titled the parchment, _Reasons I cannot like Hermione Granger._

  1. _My pheromones are misleading me._
  2. _Hermione Granger does not like me._



A third reason eluded him. In the past, even as recently as a few months ago, he would have written, _because she’s a mudblood._ But would he have been writing it because it mattered to him, or because he thought it mattered to other people? When he was little, he thought mudbloods had literal mud flowing through their veins, and they looked like golems shaped from dirt. Then he had come to Hogwarts, and they all looked like children, and he had hated them because they confused him. They seemed to hide all of their evilness deep inside their skins. He despised Hermione for years because she worked so hard and acted so nice, and he had wanted to shake her until she burst open and revealed how rotten she was at the core, proving once and for all that she had stolen her achievements. Stolen them from _him,_ he had complained to his father once when he was twelve. Only when all the muggleborns were gone from the castle did he come to understand that _mudblood_ had no meaning—it was just another word, like _sectumsempra_ or _crucio,_ created for the purpose of hurting people. 

“Nox.”

He went back to bed, and thrashed and sweated and fought with his sheets for what felt like hours, and then with no ceremony it was Friday morning. 

* * *

“You’re late,” Hermione said, already buried in one of the journals. 

“Altercation in the corridor outside the charms room,” Draco mumbled, dropping his bag on the table. “A fourth year was practicing some new spells.”

She looked up, and then covered her mouth. “Oh my.” He could tell she was laughing behind her hand, and this made him scowl. “You- your hair-”

“I’ve got more rainbows than a leprechaun,” he said. “No need to make fun.”

“I’m not making fun,” she said, her eyes still bright with mirth. “It’s a nice look. It really, uh, sets off your dark aura.”

His hair was cycling through the rainbow at a steady pace. “Don’t suppose you remember how to reverse this one? I left my ref spellbook in my room.”

“I kind of like it-”

“Granger…”

“Go to Madam Pomfrey if it bothers you so much!”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Hi Madam Pomfrey, no I’m not injured, but could you make my hair less technicolor? She’s already made fun of me once for not remembering basic counterhexes. What will she think if I can’t turn my hair back to normal on my own? Sorry excuse for a Death Eater I am.”

They suddenly both sobered. _We are not friends,_ Draco reminded himself. _She’s a hero, and a good person, and I’m me._

“Well,” Hermione said carefully, “it’s not unreasonable that you’d have forgotten spells like the color-changing charm. They’re not very applicable in real life—unless you do much color-changing your clothes. We learn these elementary spells to practice the theory behind them.”

“You spend a lot of time color-changing your clothes?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen Lavender and Parvati do it. Let’s move on, shall we?” She pushed the book on Magickal Maladies across the table towards him. “I’ll assume you’ve read this. It’s clearly missing a lot. There’s no mention of compulsion, no discussion of what an omega witch’s pregnancy is like, it doesn’t explain what triggers presentation. It’s incredibly frustrating—I don’t know if Madeline Malfoy simply didn’t have access to the right information, or if she was omitting details to fit the moral guidelines of her era. I also don’t know how these journals fit into the story. They’re clearly her personal journals, but she’s just writing about the mundane details of her life. Don’t get me wrong, this is a fascinating anthropological study, but since they were sent along as part of the package, I’m waiting for her to mention her experience of a heat, or her struggle to fight the compulsion. They’re in French, so I’m not getting through them very fast.”

“They’re in French? I know French.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, curious to learn something hidden about him. “Say something in French.”

Draco’s mind blanked. He did not really speak French; he had only picked up a decent listening ability because he used to summer in France with Mother and Father every year. “Uh, je parle français.”

“Wow.” She did not sound very impressed, and leaned back in her chair, looking back to the journal. An urge to impress her, to keep her looking at him, overcame him.

He grabbed a journal from the stack and flipped open to the first page. “This is my problem too, Granger. I don’t want to leave you to do all the work.” She opened her mouth as if to say something and he raised a finger. “I know, you already said everyone else is happy for you to do all the work yourself. But it’ll go faster if we both do it.”

She gave him a shy smile. “You know, Harry and Ron wouldn’t have offered to help.”

Draco didn’t respond for a moment, scanning down the page. Finally, he said, “Potter and Weasley didn’t go off and become Death Eaters. So, all other things being equal, they still come out on top.”

He didn’t know why he kept bringing up the Death Eater thing. She was in a cheery mood, they had been building a rapport, and every time it seemed they were getting too friendly, out slipped, “I was a Death Eater!” Then the chasm reopened between them, leaving Draco safe and alone on his own side. 

They weren’t doing this to become friends. They were meeting to figure out the alpha and omega problem. She was better off not being associated with him.

He struggled through a few pages of Madeline writing about a play she had seen, her younger brother returning home from Hogwarts, and then a long entry about her rose garden. He couldn’t help checking every minute or so to make sure Hermione was still there. She curled up in her chair and wound a hand inside that bushy mane, propping her head up, and she looked so soft and vulnerable that Draco wanted to both ruin her and save her. With a jolt shot straight to his groin, he remembered his fantasy from last night. 

She glanced up and caught his eye. “Need something?”

“I was just wondering,” he said slowly, “is our goal to _solve_ the alpha and omega problem?”

She sat back up in her chair and marked her place in her journal with a finger. “I wanted to wait until we knew more about the problem to make concrete plans, but yes, I suppose my end goal was to find a treatment that would allow us to return to symptom-free lives. In the meantime, I want to know as much about the problem as possible, so we can mitigate the more troublesome manifestations of the condition. The heat especially worries me. It sounds like it has the potential to be incredibly disruptive to our academic studies and our peers. But it may still be far off on the horizon. My more immediate concern is the compulsion.” She bit her lip. “What if there are other girls at school who don’t realize they’re omegas?”

“Luna is an omega,” Draco blurted.

She froze. “Luna Lovegood? How do you know?”

“I. Um. I smelled her. In the owlery.”

“Does she know?” Hermione pressed a hand to her forehead as if in pain. “Oh Merlin, I have to go talk to her, people are always saying cruel things, she might hear something stupid as a direct order and go do it.” Muttering more to herself than to Draco, she said, “I once overheard this boy tell her to go find a tall tower and jump from it. What if the wrong person said that to her now?” She started to gather her books and quills in a rush, the study nook oozing anxiety. Draco reached across the table and touched her wrist.

It had been instinct. He hadn’t been sure what would happen. But the light brush on her wrist stilled her and made her scent sweet again. Her eyes were wide and confused, and he jerked back as if the contact stung. “I already told her what she was,” he said, after a moment. “I told her to be careful. I also told her to talk to you.”

Hermione rubbed her wrist where he had touched her. In a small voice, she said, “I was dismissive of her, last time we talked. I’m afraid she won’t—this is such a mess.”

Draco sensed that right now she needed him to be calm. “She’s not the air-headed loon she pretends to be. Trust her to take care of herself.”

“Still.” She didn’t elaborate, and dropped her hand from her wrist. “I suppose you should know that Ginny’s probably also an omega. She can do the scent thing. I’m keeping her updated on what I learn through my readings. She doesn’t like that I’m doing this alone with you, and frankly I don’t really like it either, but-” She froze. “That’s not what I meant.”

There was a gaping empty hole inside him, like she had taken a spoon and chipped out his heart. He was already on his feet, packing his bag. “I understand what you meant.”

“No, really—I meant it was awkward, doing this alone, because we don’t know each other! When I told Ginny I was meeting you, she wanted to come with me to make it less awkward, but she has quidditch practice! And I would’ve brought Ron or Neville, but I thought that’d make things worse, you know, in case being an alpha made you more aggressive or territorial, plus you have all that history with Ron that I didn’t want to dig up—please don’t go!” She grabbed the sleeve of his robe as he headed for the stacks. 

She was standing so close, and she was so desperate, and Draco’s feet felt like they were trapped in thick mud. “Why should I stay?” he breathed. 

“Because- because-”

“There’s no part of this that we need to do together. I think this… alpha and omega thing is clouding our minds. It’s making us think we should be friends, and I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

A wall of steel went up behind Hermione’s eyes, and briefly Draco thought _does she know Occlumency?_ She let him go and took a calculated step back. “I admire that you’re committed to your tragic role as a former Death Eater. If you really want to spend the rest of your time at Hogwarts wallowing in self pity, I won’t stop you. But I meant every word I said at your Wizengamot trial. No one should be defined by the circumstances of their birth. Your parents, whatever their crimes, love you. I believe you acted not out of hatred or belief in Voldemort’s cause, but out of self-preservation and love for your family. There’s redemption from that, if you choose to pursue it. You should give yourself that chance.”

A lump formed in Draco’s throat and his eyes were very watery. He turned away, and, failing to inject any venom into his voice, said, “Don’t be sappy, Granger.”

“I’m not being sappy,” she snapped. “I’m quoting exactly what I told the Wizengamot at your trial.” She returned to her seat. “Come sit down Draco, we’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

Against all better judgement, Draco sat down. Maybe she was subtly compulsing him, but the thought wasn’t frightening. If he had to trust one person to have such power over him, he would have chosen Hermione Granger. 

“Anthony Goldstein’s an alpha also,” he said to break the silence. “We talked about it. He feels bad about what happened.”

“I figured he was. Should I talk to him?”

“Probably not.”

“Fair enough.” Now that she had gotten him back at the table, she seemed to shrink into herself, embarrassed. “Ernie Macmillan is definitely an alpha as well. I’m starting to think it may be everyone who was at the Battle of Hogwarts. Perhaps we should… take a poll, or something.”

“Send out invitations to come get sniffed,” Draco offered weakly, and Hermione cracked a close-lipped smile. “Let’s, uh, keep reading.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the masturbation scene: Draco imagines talking to Hermione and starts masturbating in his room. When he orgasms, he grows a knot, and doesn’t know what it is. After the knot goes away, he goes to sleep and has dreams that include Astoria, Harry, Hermione, and Luna. He wakes up, tries to convince himself that he’s not allowed to have a crush on Hermione, and goes back to sleep. 
> 
> Draco and Hermione had that serious conversation while his hair color was going absolutely buckwild. Also, no one asked, but I have a full, semi-academic explanation for what nonsense Professor Babbling was talking about. I’ve spared you of it in the notes because it’s a bit long. But if someone were to ask in the comments…
> 
> Next up: “Time’s a-wastin’!” (Hermione POV) 
> 
> I’m moving my updates to Sundays. Next update on Sunday, Jan. 30th :)


	6. Time's A-Wastin'!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron’s power over Hermione takes a turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief description of imagined noncon in the paragraph beginning with **. Summary at the end.

The day had come to tell Neville and Ron about the alpha and omega problem. Best to do it now, before it became common knowledge. Neville was not really one for tantrums, Hermione mused from the cushiony comfort of her four poster bed. She had no doubt he would receive the news calmly. It was Ron who was the problem, not least because he was likely to shut her up before she could explain the situation. 

There was power in numbers, and in proof of fellow suffering. She would get Ginny to help her talk to Neville, and then she would bring both Neville and Ginny along when she talked to Ron. 

But when Hermione knocked on the door to the seventh year girl’s dorm, one of Ginny’s roommates answered. “She’s sick,” said the roommate.

Ginny rolled over in bed. “I’m not that sick,” she protested. Sweat showed through her shirt under her armpits. 

Hermione laid a hand on Ginny’s forehead. Ginny’s forehead burned. “You need to go to Madam Pomfrey.”

“No!” Ginny scrambled up, pulling her knees in close. Her sheets fell away, revealing that they were soaked in sweat. 

“Madam Pomfrey could have you right in a couple of hours. Do you want me to go?”

“Is it selfish that I want the day off?”

Hermione studied her friend. Her hair looked as though it had just been through a tornado and her skin was blotchy. In the muggle world these kinds of sicknesses were called 24-hour fevers. 

“As long as it doesn’t get worse,” Hermione said reluctantly. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

She checked her watch. It read,  _ You are going to be late for breakfast! _ She would rather it tell the time, but magical devices never worked in sensible ways. Once, for fun, Hermione had designed the syllabus for a class on Functional Design for Witches and Wizards. She proposed it to McGonagall, but McGonagall had unfortunately not seen the need. 

Sharp pain stabbed through Hermione’s rib cage. She realized the implications of being late for breakfast—Ron wouldn’t like it. Her feet dragged her forward as if pulled by a fish hook hooked around one of her ribs. Panic shot through her. She hadn’t even seen Ron this morning, there was no way she should be affected by his compulsion yet. 

Her adrenaline spiked, cutting off her connection to the compulsion. She whiteknuckled her wand like it was holding her in place. The stairs down to the Gryffindor common room undulated before her, their shape loosening as her grip on her own will tightened. It was like snagging a protruding tree branch while being sucked into the maelstrom—Ron’s maelstrom. 

Hold fast to that anchor. Focus. And-

“Excuse me.” A fifth year slid past and headed down the stairs.

Hermione’s hold on the tree branch slipped. She wasn’t strong enough to swim against both the current and the weight of her already waterlogged clothes. The whirlpool caught her, dragging her into its orbit, and she screamed and wailed at her lost chance, watching the anchor spin by, now out of reach, although no one she passed would have noticed because she wore a beatific smile and skipped into the Great Hall and leaped on Ron from behind. 

“Hey! Happy Saturday!” she sang.

“‘Mione,” he exclaimed, dropping his fork and reaching up to half-hug her. She took her customary seat next to him. “Mum’s sent me a houseplant. Remember last week it was a fruitcake? I thought she was sending care packages, but I now think she’s trying to unload her junk on me. I’ll probably give it to Neville.”

_ You shouldn’t give away things that your mother sends you to show her love, _ Hermione wanted to scold. Perhaps it would be different if Mrs. Weasley was constantly sending useless junk, but Hermione knew that Mrs. Weasley wasn’t frivolous like that. “That’s so thoughtful of you,” she said. “Neville will really appreciate it.” 

He gave her a warm smile, and he really did have a nice smile. Nice arms, too. His hair was especially nice, hopefully their children would have his hair, and the way he held his shoulders was very authoritative and masculine—oh, he was saying something. 

“What do you think?” he asked, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Huh? 

Suddenly Hermione was looking down from above as if floating in a high corner of the Great Hall. There were two Hermiones. One was the girl sitting at the table, blankfaced and dumb, a puppet controlled by strings. The other was the girl holding the strings and providing speech for the puppet. Hermione was both puppet and puppeteer, and right now, neither knew quite what to say, because neither had heard the question. 

The puppeteer’s only goal was to see Ron smile. Based on his expression, Ron wanted an affirmative answer. The puppeteer gave the puppet a hard yank, and Hermione flew back into her body and parroted, “That sounds like a great idea!”

So she found herself out on the quidditch pitch, a broom between her legs, getting ready to kick off, and kicking and screaming from inside her mind. It was to no avail. The ground shot away below her. 

Everyone knew Hermione didn’t like flying; she was deeply mediocre at it. She didn’t like being mediocre at things and thus avoided flying because the best way to deal with lack of natural talent is denial. That is sarcasm on the part of the author, but really—Hermione liked the ground and liked to keep it within ten feet of her at all times. 

That wasn’t what Ron wanted, and it wasn’t what puppeteer-Hermione wanted, so Hermione was locked in the back of the car, holding tight to the Jesus handle and trying to scream. The ground was fifty feet away and her broom drifted with the wind. Every dip felt like freefall. Ron shouted instructions, something about counterbalancing. Normally, this was the part where Hermione would get dizzy and drop precipitously. But puppeteer-Hermione had the wheel. As Ron guided her through turns, stops, and her first loop-de-loop, Hermione stopped fighting the weightlessness. She was like a different creature, transformed into a dolphin, spinning and speeding and swooping for the sheer delight of it. 

She shot over to Ron and skidded to a clumsy stop, forcing him to dive out of the way and then rise back up to meet her. “I never realized how fun this could be,” she panted.

“And I never realized you could fly like that.” Ron leaned over and gave her a shoulder hug, causing both their brooms to dip. Hermione squirmed. “Do you want to do some laps to cool down?” Some Hufflepuffs had arrived on the field to practice. By the looks of them, they were second or third years, still struggling to get the handle of their school-shed brooms before the quidditch tryouts. “Let’s go up high and let the little twerps have the ground.” He grinned. “I’m so proud of you Hermione. I really never thought I’d see you fly like that.”

_ I want to land.  _ “It’s because of you,” Hermione said robotically.

They took a leisurely pace, flying side by side. 

“-probably because I got banned from the team in fifth year,” Ron was saying. “But I’m the oldest returning member, so the title should have gone to me automatically, like it did to Harry in sixth year. This retaliation for that one time McGonagall overheard me calling her a crankypuss and it’s not fair, she really was being a crankypuss-”

_ It’s probably because you’re an eighth year, and we’re all here on invitational status, _ said the locked away Hermione to herself. She had screamed and fought herself to exhaustion. The puppeteer-Hermione was in ironclad control, and though she hated to admit it, she was probably safer if she didn’t fight the compulsion while flying high above the ground.

“-then Ginny sends me a patronus saying the tryouts tonight are cancelled because she’s sick. That smells like bullshit, why doesn’t she go to Madam Pomfrey? I think she’s trying to keep me off the team. Has she said anything to you?”

“Nothing about quidditch.”

“You should talk to her and figure out what’s going on-”

The puppeteer nodded her head and made a note. 

While Ron babbled, Hermione squinted out at the castle. The tower closest to the quidditch pitch was the tower that held the owlery. A tall figure, dressed in black but sporting a shock of white-blond hair, stood at the arched window.

Draco?

Hermione glanced at Ron, but he was deep in his conspiracy about Ginny trying to keep him off the team, and had forgotten to pay attention to her. Hermione raised her hand experimentally. Ron did not look over, and the puppeteer did not jerk her strings—the puppeteer only cared about things that Ron cared about. 

Hermione gave a hesitant wave in the direction of the owlery. 

Perhaps he had not seen her, or perhaps she had been wrong, and it was not Draco. There is something distinctly embarrassing about waving to the wrong person, and Hermione considered asking Ron whether they could turn around and fly in the opposite direction so she didn’t have to face the owlery.

The figure at the owlery raised his hand in greeting. 

* * *

“Do you want to study this afternoon?”

Hermione squirmed, fighting the  _ yes _ on her tongue. She could twist her words, especially when Ron did not really want what he was asking, and Ron never really wanted to study. “I was thinking of getting ahead on my transfiguration homework, maybe you could drill me on theorems.”

“You’re so cute,” Ron said. “I was actually wondering if you could help me with the charms practical next week.”

“Maybe this afternoon? I need to go talk to Ginny. I could talk to her about-”

“Quidditch tryouts,” Ron filled in. “You’re the best.” He bent down and tried to peck her on the lips, as he did sometimes these days. Hermione shuddered inside her body and wrestled enough control from the puppeteer to turn her head. His lips landed on her cheek, and chased her mouth. She tossed her head again, like a baby avoiding avoiding their mother’s spoon. 

“Wait-”

His knee fit between her legs, and he backed her against the wall, and his scent was too strong. She felt dizzy. 

“Ron, please,” she whispered. “We’re in public.”

He chuckled and pressed her forehead to hers. “Yeah, sorry, I got carried away for a second. Later we should-”

Whatever he said next, the puppeteer did not hear it. She had cast an unconscious  _ muffliato. _ She rocketed down the corridor. Soon, her footsteps would force her to the Gryffindor tower, to talk to Ginny and ask her about quidditch. But for a few brief minutes, her body was hers again. She threw herself inside an unused classroom and locked the door. 

Abruptly she was crying. All her energy had been sapped away by the struggle against the compulsion, hollowing her out into paper mache with a few dry kernels rattling around inside. Why was this happening to her? How did Ron—one of her best friends—not notice how strange their relationship had become? Harry would have noticed immediately. The only answer that Hermione could think of was that Ron liked her better this way, like a windup doll begging to do his bidding, which he could put away in the closet when he didn’t want to play with her. 

**  _ Ron wants me to go talk to Ginny. _ She wiped her face. Her body was no longer hers to control. She knew Ron well enough to know what he wanted. When he wanted to kiss her, or take her clothes off, eventually she would do it. The omega part of her had recognized him as her alpha. The path played out in her mind—Ron leaned down to capture her lips in a kiss, pressing her against a wall. She smiled and giggled into his mouth, and he led her by hand to the Gryffindor boy’s dorm and threw her down on his bed. The drapes flew shut with a wave of a wand and their clothes vanished by magic, and with no preparation he was inside her, thrusting roughly, and she didn’t want it and she did want it, because she was wet and ready and willing.

“No!” she shouted. In a flash of light, she conjured a pair of muggle handcuffs and cuffed herself to the bar of a heavy desk, and threw her wand across the room. 

She thrashed against the desk, sobbing and wailing  _ accio wand, accio wand _ until her throat went hoarse and her wrist was purple. 

The compulsion began to fade. 

In certain types of Rosalie Gold novels, this was the point where the dashing lead would burst into the room, having sensed the heroine’s distress, and scoop her up in his arms and gallantly declare that she was safe with him. This did not happen to Hermione. She did not know who to cast in the role of dashing lead.

She leaned her head against the side of the desk. The stone floor was cool and hard beneath her legs. “But he’s my best friend,” she rasped. “Not a cackling villain. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he’ll stop when he understands. I need Ginny to talk to him. I need to talk to Ginny. Accio wand,” she added hopefully. Her wand did not twitch. “Maybe I could write him a letter, explaining the alpha and omega problem. I should have done that days ago. I should have gone to McGonagall the first day I knew about this.”

She thought miserably of the list of assignments and readings she had set out to accomplish today. Her unhelpful wristwatch read  _ Time’s a-wastin’! _ The classroom had a single window facing out towards the Forbidden Forest, and Hermione watched a flock of thestrals play around the treetops. She rested her head on her knees and dozed as much as the hard stone and her stiff knees let her. 

She estimated it was 7 o’clock when her conjured handcuffs faded. The first thing she did was summon a glass, fill it with water, and chug it. Then, with considerable hesitation, she stepped out into the corridor and braced for the tidal force of compulsion. 

The strings let her be. In the hours Hermione had spent handcuffed to a desk, the puppeteer had gotten bored and gone off somewhere else. Her body was her own again. 

She caught sight of Draco Malfoy wandering down the hall towards her with his nose in a book. This was a bit odd, since he definitely hadn’t been there three seconds earlier. “Draco?” she said, her voice wavering. “Is that you?”

He lowered his book. “Granger, what’re you doing in an empty corridor? That’s how people get attacked.”

She wanted to give a snappy retort, maybe remind him that his experience of being hexed in empty corridors was not universal, but the words didn’t come. Her mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. 

Draco came closer. “You don’t look too good.”

The only words Hermione could think of to say were, “Was that you I saw this morning in the owlery?”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You were flying. I thought you didn’t do that.”

“Why would you think that I don’t fly?” she asked.

“I’m guessing,” he mumbled, not meeting her gaze, and then added, “You were with Weasley. I figured he was making you do something you don’t want to do.”

“Ron and I are good friends,” Hermione said, without much conviction. “But… I will admit the flying lesson wasn’t my idea.” She sagged against the wall, the impact knocking the air from her chest. 

“Woah, careful.” Draco conjured a stool and hovered his hand over her shoulder, not quite touching, as he guided her onto it. “I stand by my original point—you look like you just got done wrestling a cave troll.”

Hermione huffed out a chuckle. “A mountain troll, actually.”

“Come again?”

“An old joke,” she said, and then she missed Harry terribly, a physical ache like being homesick for the planes of a friend’s face and the shape of their smile and the layers of memories you shared. “Don’t stand there, it makes me feel weird.” She summoned a squishy velvet armchair.

“It’s not a competition,” Draco muttered, perching on the very edge of the seat and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 

Twilight fell, and the torches in the wall sconces flared up and settled to a steady flicker. This usually happened while Hermione was eating dinner, and the hiss of the flames never failed to startle her. She twiddled her thumbs, not sure why she didn’t make her excuses and leave. The pile of classwork grew larger and larger the longer she waited, and yet here she was, sitting on a stool in a remote corridor with her best friend’s oldest rival. 

“You smell fucking unhappy,” Draco said, interrupting what Hermione had thought was an amicable silence. “Want to talk about it, or should I cast an air-freshening charm and leave you alone?”

Hermione chewed her lip. If only Draco had the power to turn into Harry.

“If this is about Weasley, you know I’m happy to murder him. I don’t really need a reason, I’ve been plotting his death for years,” Draco joked, or at least she hoped he was joking. When she didn’t answer, he pressed his lips together and said, half to himself, “I’m being a bloody psycho about this.”

“I appreciate that you’re here,” Hermione blurted out. 

Something changed in his posture. He pulled his shoulders back and straightened up, she thought she smelled something like pride and arousal. Hermione’s eyes flicked down to his crotch, expecting to see a bulge. Perhaps his pants were too tight. “Um. Sure. Anytime, Granger.”

“Can you call me by my first name, please?”

He swallowed. “Hermione?”

The word coming from his mouth unknotted all that confusion and tension inside her chest. She leaned back against the wall. “Thanks. What were you doing here?”

“Lurking,” he said vaguely. She raised an eyebrow, and he added, “I enjoy being able to walk freely while everyone’s at dinner.”

“Makes sense…”

Draco leaned back in the armchair. “What’re you doing tonight? Back to Gryffindor to study?”

Hermione had thought about this over the hours she had spent handcuffed to the desk. She couldn’t risk seeing Ron again today. With Ginny sick and quidditch tryouts cancelled, it was likely she would run into him if she spent the evening in Gryffindor tower, unless she wanted to hole up in her room. “I don’t know,” she said after a long pause. “I had all these plans for today, but… I don’t want to do any of them.”

“There’s a disco theme party tonight in Ravenclaw tower,” Draco said, picking his words with care. “Goldstein invited me because he owes me a favor. The concept is lame, but it’s the kind of tripe you Gryffindors eat up. He told me not to show up alone or I’d probably get turned into a frog and hurled out the window, and I didn’t really want to go anyway, but perhaps-”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I want to go.” This was probably impulsive and stupid and dangerous, and Hermione knew she was in an odd headspace. Probably more than anything she needed a lie down and a cup of hot tea. But what she wanted was to drink and dance and feel herself in control of her own body.

“You want to go with me, or—with me, got it. When shall we meet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the explicit paragraph: Hermione reasons that if Ron’s compulsion is forcing her to act out his desires, it may eventually force her to have sex with him against her will. 
> 
> lmaooo this story is going so slow. purposeful pacing is like. not a thing i do.
> 
> Next up: “The Obligatory Party Chapter” (more Hermione POV)
> 
> Update on Sunday Feb. 7th :)


	7. The Obligatory Party Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gets drunk, and Draco admits something personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets blatantly nsfw but it’s all consensual (though perhaps not sober) and you will see it coming from a mile away. Summary at bottom.

Hermione burst into Ginny’s dorm. “I’m going to the Ravenclaw party with Draco Malfoy.”

Ginny was reading a book in bed, her forehead shiny with sweat despite the open window and the chilly breeze ruffling the drapes. “What? Hermione—what?”

“It’s a long story, and also I need you to talk to your brother. Are you faking sick to get out of holding quidditch tryouts to keep him off the team? He wanted me to ask you that. I spent the entire morning with him. I was under his compulsion before I ever talked to him, it’s getting worse. I meant to sit him and Neville down and explain the alpha and omega problem, but I never got the chance because-”

“One thing at a time! Go back to the part about Malfoy. He asked you out?”

“That’s not the important part,” Hermione said frantically. “The important part is that your brother keeps trying to kiss me but I don’t want to kiss him. But he doesn’t know that! When I’m with him, all I want to do is make him happy. It’s because of the alpha and omega thing. I know he’ll be upset when he finds out none of this was real on my side, so every time I try to explain, I find myself nodding along to quidditch statistics. I need you to explain it to him. You’re not affected by his compulsion, right?”

“No…” They had discussed the possibility of Ron having power over his sister, but Ginny observed that she could barely scent him, and they surmised that their siblinghood probably overrode the alpha and omega thing. “I’m so sorry this is happening, Hermione. Do you need me to talk to him tonight?” She made to get out of bed and hunched over, her eyes shut and her hand pressing down hard on her lower abdomen. 

Hermione rushed over and stopped Ginny from getting out of bed. “It’s not that urgent, it can wait until the morning. Are you okay?”

“It’s PMS,” Ginny said, her face relaxing as she laid back. “I’m having bad cramps. I already took a pain relief potion, I don’t want to bother Madam Pomfrey.”

“Bad cramps don’t usually come with a fever,” Hermione joked nervously. 

Ginny waved her off. “Explain to me what’s going on with Draco Malfoy.”

“There’s not much to explain. I ran into him in the hallway. He mentioned the Ravenclaw party and… I thought it sounded fun. It’s not a date or anything. We barely know each other.”

“What’re you going to wear?” 

Hermione got the distinct impression that Ginny was changing the topic to distract herself from her PMS. This was a situation with which Hermione could sympathize. “It’s a disco theme party, so I was hoping for something… sparkly?”

“Ooh, I’ve got the perfect thing. Look in the pile on the bed.” Ginny waved her hand at the bed across the room. Two of the girls from Ginny’s year had not returned to Hogwarts, meaning that Ginny and her roommates had turned the extra beds into storage space. Or perhaps the three remaining girls were just messy, Hermione thought, eyeing the explosion of clothes and paper and dishware littering the room. She dug through the pile of clothes on the bed, pulling out a low cut dress covered in red, yellow, and black sequins.

“That’d be cute on you,” Ginny said.

“This is stripperwear.” Hermione tried it on. “I feel like I’m naked. This skirt is so short.” 

“You’re such a prude. What’s wrong with stripperwear? There are spells to keep your skirt down. Abby even taught me a _vagina dentata_ spell if you want the extra security.”

“I’d like not to curse my crotch before I go out.”

“Never hurts to be safe. Especially if you’re going with Malfoy.”

Hermione almost snapped that it was Ginny’s brother who was the real threat, but she didn’t want to start an argument. Ginny spelled the dress to stay put, and she let Ginny teach her the _vagina dentata_ spell, though she refused to use it. Hermione sat on the bed, inhaling Ginny’s pungent scent of sweat and citrus, and let Ginny do her makeup and hair. 

“When are you meeting Malfoy?” Ginny asked. 

“Nine, outside the portrait hole.”

“Do you want me to patronus Ron and make sure he’s not in the common room or near the portrait hole? That way you won’t run into him, and he won’t run into Malfoy.” This seemed prudent, and so Ginny sent off a patronus telling Ron that he’d better be on the quidditch pitch practicing if he wanted to make it on the team.

“Won’t that make him not want to practice?” Hermione asked. 

“Ron loves quidditch more than he resents me.” Ginny sighed. “I don’t really know what to do. I wish McGonagall hadn’t made me captain. If I let him on the team he’ll try to captain from the goal hoops, but if I don’t let him on the team—well, you know him.”

Hermione did know. “Do you want me to stay? We could go over the Ron situation. Or we could play cards, or I could explain the stock market again. I feel bad leaving you alone.”

“I’m fine, honestly. It’s just cramps, I’ve had them before. So… d’you think he’s hot?”

“Who? Ron? Draco?”

“You’re on a first name basis? Ooh la la. Yes, do you think Draco Malfoy is hot?”

“Um. He’s alright.”

“Don’t lie, he’s objectively attractive. Tall, and nice hair. It almost offsets the aura of evil. Is that the reason you’re hanging out with him-”

“No!”

“-are you thinking with your vagina?”

Hermione’s pelvic floor clenched as she remembered the sensation of having him sit close to her, or her heady fervor when he touched her wrist. “I just like hanging out with him.”

“Yes, I can see you must be attracted to his sparkling personality,” Ginny deadpanned. 

“He’s… funny, and kind of sweet sometimes. I mean, he’s still _himself,_ but I feel like without the pressure of his parents or his housemates, he’s letting a different side of himself out. I want to give him a chance.”

“You and Harry are both too ready to find the light in dark wizards. They _do_ tell you not to try and change men. Next you’ll be trying to explain to me why Tom deserves forgiveness.” Ginny clamped her jaw shut, looking away. 

Hermione checked her watch. It read _It’s party time!_ The windup clock by Ginny’s bed read a minute to nine. “I should get going.”

Ginny forced a smile. “Send a patronus if you’re uncomfortable and want to leave. Then I’ll send a big loud one asking for you to come back.”

“You’re a good friend.” Hermione bent over and kissed her forehead. She really smelled ripe. “Go take a shower.”

She crept down the stairs to the common room, trying to see if Ron had ignored Ginny’s instructions, but the common room was empty except for a couple of students playing exploding gobstones by the fireplace. The clock on the wall said it was exactly nine. She took a deep breath, tugged at the bottom of her dress, and stepped out into the corridor.

There was no one there. She looked up and down the corridor, disappointment swooping through her stomach. Draco had stood her up. 

“Hey,” said a low voice, and then he was there.

She looked up at him. He wore a black suit with no tie and the first two buttons on his shirt undone, showing a bit of skin. He had shaken out his hair, and without thinking, she reached up and touched it. 

He held himself still. His hair was very soft, and she found herself glad that he had left it loose instead of combing it neatly to the side. He looked gentler this way. 

She pulled her hand back, aware of the awkward intimacy of her touch. “You look nice,” she said. 

He gave a half-smile. “So do you.”

“You look excited. I thought this party was ‘lame Gryffindor tripe’.”

His smile turned into a sneer. “I’m looking forward to the expressions on their faces when the scum of Slytherin enters the party with the princess of Gryffindor on his arm.” He made a chicken wing motion as if to offer his arm and then thought better of it. They headed across the castle towards the entrance to Ravenclaw tower, leaving several feet of space between them.

“I’m not the princess of Gryffindor.”

“But you don’t deny that I’m the scum of Slytherin.”

“I was going to deny that part next. What’re you even going to do at this party? Dance?” She couldn’t imagine The Draco Malfoy getting funky on the dance floor to the Village People, or whatever witches and wizards had listened to during the height of disco. 

“I was intending to stand in the corner and drink a lot and scowl at everyone who looked at me.”

“We should make a plan. First we’ll head for food and drinks. We’ll hang in the corner and talk for a few minutes—just long enough for everyone to see that you and I are getting along—and then we’ll go talk to Ernie’s group, if they’re in attendance. Ernie’s pompous and so are his friends, but they’ll be polite. Then maybe we should dance, separately of course, and I’ll try and get Neville over to say hi. Although I’m not sure Neville will be there. Then we should talk to Padma and Justin, since they’re prefects, and thank them for throwing the party. Here’s a list of neutral topics to talk about: how nice the Ravenclaw tower is, the weather, the full moon, the-”

“Have you ever been to a party?” Draco interrupted. 

“I’ve been to the quidditch afterparties…” They arrived at the top of the spiral staircase leading to Ravenclaw. Hermione crossed her arms. “It won’t be much different, will it?”

“The music will probably be louder.” The door thumped with the beat. “Ready?”

Hermione suddenly wished she were in her bed, wrapped in pajamas and curled up under the covers, reading a book. “I suppose.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I thought you couldn’t get in if I didn’t go,” Hermione said.

“Granger—Hermione—are you daft? I invited you because you looked like you could use a pick-me-up, not because I’m dying to go to a theme party.”

“If you don’t want to go-” Hermione said, her voice rising, and Draco shook his head impatiently and banged the eagle-shaped knocker. 

It cawed, “These tragedies have reminded us…”

“Words matter and the power of life and death is in the tongue,” Draco finished. The door swung inward, and the first thing Hermione noticed was that the music was unfathomably loud and the room was darker than she had expected. A mass of bodies gyrated in the middle of the common room, and the scents in the room jumbled together into a sweaty, salty funk. She wrinkled her nose, and Draco did the same. 

Either the Ravenclaws had cast an illusion on their common room, or every student in Hogwarts had showed up. Hermione couldn’t make out a single person she knew. She did see the food and drinks table, and they went there first.

The punch was potently alcoholic. Hermione bobbed her head to the music and nursed her drink to have something to do as Draco leaned back against the wall, and for a minute it seemed like perhaps no one was going to notice him. Then Padma sidled up to her, and said in her ear, “I can’t believe you brought _Malfoy._ ”

Hermione glanced over at Draco, who stared blankly out at the dance floor as colored lights washed over him. To Padma, she said, “Why shouldn’t I?”

Padma shrugged. “Don’t blame me when Justin starts frothing at the mouth and shooting off curses.” She spun off towards the dance floor. 

Hermione cast around for anyone she knew. Clearly her plan of having a series of smalltalk conversations and then ducking out was not going to work. This was not that kind of party. 

Draco leaned down. “You should dance.”

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough.” Hermione took a gulp of her drink. 

“Luna’s here. Why don’t you talk to her?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” 

Draco’s eyes were flat. “You should go have fun.”

Luna wore a pink glowing dress that appeared to be constructed out of the long skinny balloons that are used to make animals for kids. Hermione took a sip of her punch; she didn’t drink much and already the room spun slightly. A loose bolt in the back of her mind thought Draco was doing that thing where he was being prickly on purpose, but the front part of her brain didn’t care. “Okay,” she said. “Have fun over here by the wall. I’ll be back later.”

It didn’t occur to Hermione until she was halfway across the room that her last interaction with Luna had been embarrassingly cool, and perhaps showing up and dancing with her wouldn’t help their relations. Hermione sputtered to a stop and drank some more, nodding to the beat, trying to decide what to say when she reached Luna. Luna jumped onto the dance floor at the start of the next song and began to dance solo, her eyes closed and her arms flung out widely. She looked blissful. Perhaps a tad drunk, too. Hermione was relieved to have an excuse not to interrupt.

There hadn’t been parties like this before the war. The quidditch aftergame parties had been raucous, but she had mostly stuck to the wall, reading a book, while people drank and reenacted the most heroic plays around her. 

Harry sometimes hung out with her during those parties. He didn’t like the hero worship like Ron did. She was sure Harry would have stuck by her side tonight. 

“Hey, Hermione. Your hair looks nice.”

Neville planted himself beside her. He flashed a sweet smile. Of all her friends, Neville was the most like Harry. “Thanks,” she said, patting her hair and immediately feeling rather dumb. “Ginny did it.”

“Well, it looks nice. Sorry, I said that already.” He lifted a cup. “Had a bit already.”

She showed him her cup. “Me too. How’s the herbology essay going? Don’t answer that—Neville, I swear I can talk about things other than school.”

“We’re a pair, huh? Cheers.” They tapped their cups together. The song changed to a slower classic. “My aunt loves this song.” 

“Well—in honor of your aunt—want to dance?” Hermione held out her hand. 

“I’m not really a good dancer…” But Neville accepted her invitation and they spun at the edge of the dance floor, rocking in the general direction of the beat. 

“I need to tell you something,” Hermione said. 

“Yeah?” 

The alcohol must have been affecting her judgement. The middle of a loud, crowded party was not the place to explain the alpha and omega problem. A group of jumping girls bumped into her, and Neville steadied her elbow and tugged her out of the way. 

“I’ve never been to this type of party,” Hermione said.

Neville’s face fell, but he laughed to cover it. “Me neither. I don’t think there were any like this before.”

As they rocked in circles, Hermione caught glimpses of Draco through the crowd. He was watching her, and drinking, with a very dark look in his eye. His gaze heated her skin, and she again wished she had covered up more. 

“I have a question,” Neville shouted over the music. “Where do witches keep their wands when they’re dressed like- like you are?”

“Down the front of my dress,” Hermione said, and pulled her wand out from between her breasts.

Neville flushed and he looked politely over her shoulder. “Does it get uncomfortable?”

“A little.” She stuffed her wand back down her dress. They did another spin, and Hermione instinctively looked for Draco. But he was gone.

She froze. What if he’d been turned into a frog and hurled out the window? She pulled her wand back out, scanning the room for perpetrators. “What’s wrong?” Neville was asking, but then she saw it:

Draco was dancing with Luna.

Luna had clearly dragged him into it. His expression was one of poker-faced sufferance. They danced the way Hermione danced with her father, hand in hand, Luna pushing and pulling to get him to move his body. She was doing a complicated step that might have been the charleston. 

Neville and Hermione were not the only people who stopped to watch. “Accio punch,” Hermione murmured. “Am I dreaming?” A cup of punch flew to her hand and she downed it in two large gulps. She started to giggle. “Neville—let’s dance with them.”

“What?” Neville yelped. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him over to Draco and Luna, copying the way they were dancing, hand in hand, push and pull. Neville had drunk enough to get into it, and soon he was laughing too, and spinning her, and people were applauding and calling out requests— _do a dip!_ —which Hermione and Neville ignored because they weren’t good dancers at all, but it was a lot of fun, and as Hermione spinned she caught Draco’s eye, and he was smiling too. 

Then somehow they had all switched partners, and Hermione was dancing with Draco. She knew she should care, but it didn’t seem to matter that this was Draco Malfoy, her best friend’s oldest rival and a former Death Eater. The beat had infected her brain. She swung wildly and he caught her, his hand on her waist and his face inches from hers, and Hermione thought _maybe he’ll kiss me,_ but then they switched partners again, and Hermione was dancing with Luna. 

Luna spun Hermione under her arm. “I’m so glad you came!” Luna slurred, and yes, she had definitely been drinking. 

“Me too!” Hermione enthused, and then she was distracted by a thunderous roar. Both she and Luna faltered. 

Draco and Neville had grabbed hands and were dancing together, to the intense delight of the crowd. They only did this for a second before breaking apart, but Hermione had time to think, _this is the moment that everyone will talk about for the rest of the week_ before the beat possessed her again and she lost track of Draco altogether. 

Hermione didn’t count who she danced with or how many drinks she had. She remembered dancing with Padma and Justin, and then with Hannah Abbott and her friends. Dean Thomas sauntered up to her while she was taking a break to drink some water and eat a handful of chips, and they had danced rather intimately. Hermione would have been worried about the repercussions of their dirty dancing, except Dean was obviously as wasted as she was. When Dean left to get another drink, Hermione was absorbed into a circle of seventh year Hufflepuff girls who cheered to see her and introduced themselves with names that Hermione immediately forgot. 

The party thinned out. Hermione needed to pee, so she went up to the girl’s dorm. The bathroom lights hurt her eyes. Beauty products and abandoned cups littered the counter. She took a moment to check herself in the mirror. 

Her watch read _It’s bedtime._

She didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Draco. Where had the sulky bastard gone? 

When she tiptoed back down to the common room, the party was clearly winding down. Luna still danced solo in the center of the room, but Neville had gone back to Gryffindor, and so had most of Hermione’s new party friends. Draco lounged on an armchair, waiting for her. 

She plopped down beside him. Her wand jabbed her stomach as she slouched, and she pulled it out of her dress. “You’ve got good moves.”

“My mother thought mastery of all forms of social dance was essential to a proper upbringing. Waltz, foxstep, rumba, disco… I can do it all.” His head lolled back. “No one hexed me tonight. Or maybe they did and I’m too drunk to feel it.”

“You look normal.”

Draco lifted the collar of his shirt and peered down. “All seems right down there.” He grabbed his crotch. “Feels as big as ever. Hm. Maybe I did get through the night with no curses.” He yawned. “Wanna get out of here?” 

He stood and offered her his arm gallantly. Hermione minced out of her chair. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

“Of course, milady. After you.” He helped her through the entrance to Ravenclaw, and they both held the wall as they descended the spiral staircase. “Shall I escort the princess back to her tower?”

The corridors were dark and quiet, and Hermione knew that the moment she re-entered Gryffindor tower, the night would shatter. She would return to her life, where she spent weekend evenings curled up reading in bed, and where Ginny was her closest friend, and where she was terrified to see Ron, and where she missed Harry so desperately it felt like a piece of her heart had been torn out. “Not yet. I’m not ready yet.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Where do you usually go when you don’t want to go back to Slytherin?” Hermione countered. 

“I usually go looking for the Room of Requirement.”

“Then let’s do that.” They headed for the sixth floor. “You don’t suppose it’s moved.”

“I thought it was keeping me out. I wouldn’t blame it. Either that, or it’s been destroyed.”

They paced up and down the hall where the Room of Requirement used to be. “Let’s try a different corridor,” Hermione suggested. 

Draco stopped her. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t you want to find it?” She slid down against the wall and sat on the floor, numbly registering the hard stone under her tailbone. Draco sat down beside her. 

“I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“Why not—’cause Crabbe died there?” Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

Moonlight played through the window and reflected white on the floor tiles. “I miss Crabbe,” Draco admitted. “I know I shouldn’t—he was mean, and he made stupid decisions, but I can’t help feeling like it was my fault. Like I should have protected him from himself.”

“You’re not a bad person for loving complicated people.”

Draco’s voice hardened. “Love is a strong word. I don’t know if I love my friends. I miss them. I wish at least one of them had chosen to come back.”

“Why don’t you write to them?”

“That’s not really our type of friendship.” 

“Why don’t you try and see what happens?”

Draco leaned his head back. “I guess I could. It feels like it’d be weird—a couple of blokes writing each other heartfelt letters. The aurors who monitor my letters would laugh their pants off.”

Hermione placed her hand on the tile, a few inches from his. “I miss Harry.”

“You have lots of friends,” Draco said. “What’s so special about Harry—about Potter?”

“He’s my best friend,” Hermione said simply. “He would have understood this alpha and omega thing.”

Suddenly he leaned over and sniffed her neck. “I can’t smell you.”

She sniffed him as well. “I don’t think I can smell anything.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

“I stopped counting. At least five cups of whatever was in that punch.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered. He wobbled to his feet, bracing one hand on the wall. “Al-right, c’mon. Time to get the princess back to her tower.” She reached out and he yanked her up. She crashed into his torso. 

“Sorry,” she giggled. Instead of pulling away like she should have, she hugged him and rested her head against his chest. He was just as warm and solid as she had imagined. 

“You’re lighter than you look.”

“Maybe you’re stronger than you think.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her tightly. “So this was all a ploy to get close to me? Granger, you could’ve asked, it would’ve been easier.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. “How much have _you_ had to drink?”

He rested his chin on her head. “A whole lot. A whoooole lot, princess.” 

“You’re nicer when you’re drunk,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Is that so.” His chest vibrated when he spoke. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and slow and grounded. Somewhere far, far away, Hermione imagined that little puppeteer frantically tugging her strings and trying to make the marionette work. But Hermione was in control of her body. 

“I think… when I’m drunk... the alpha and omega thing kind of goes away. Do you feel that? Tell me to do something. Tell me to… pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time.”

Draco snorted. “What? Have you lost your marbles?”

They spun a few steps, like they were slow dancing to the silence of the empty corridor. Draco lifted his head and Hermione tensed, waiting for him to pull away from their embrace. She wanted to stay warm and safe in his arms. “We should get you back to Gryffindor.”

She did the only thing she could think of to make him stay. “I want to kiss you.”

Her words didn’t have the intended effect. He pulled away for real this time, holding her at an arm’s length and inspecting her face. “You are _so_ drunk.”

“It’s insulting that you would blame my desires on being drunk,” Hermione said, the indignity of his accusation clearing away some of the alcohol fog. “The effect of alcohol is only to lower my inhibitions.”

“You’re still Hermione Granger, that’s for sure.”

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

He stared at her mouth. “Yes.”

“Then kiss me.”

He put a hand behind her head and kissed her. Hermione wobbled and grabbed at his shoulders to keep from falling backwards. Syrupy heat pooled in her lower belly and she moaned and pushed against him. She had always thought kissing was something people did because the movies told them to, but this… she could do this for hours.

He backed her into a wall, one hand still behind her head to protect it from the stone and the other caging her in. 

“Ow,” she squeaked as he bit her lip.

“Too much?” he murmured, a smile in his voice.

“A little,” she admitted, and then immediately wished she hadn’t, because he pulled away. She chased him, leaning up on her toes and pressing her lips to his. “Please don’t stop,” she said between kisses.

“Fuck…” His hand traced lower, gliding over her ass. “Can I touch you?” She nodded and she wasn’t sure if he had really seen it, but he tried to tug her miniskirt up to her waist and it didn’t move. He tried again, harder, and there was an uncomfortable pinching sensation on the back of her legs. “Did you- did you glue your dress to your ass?”

“Oh my god.”

“God?”

“Ginny spelled my skirt down. I don’t know how to undo the spell.”

“I assume it can come off in the other direction…” Desire was thick in his eyes and his hand traveled upwards to the zipper pull between her shoulder blades. 

“Draco!” She swatted his arm. “I’m not getting naked in the corridor. I’ve got no bra on!”

“You haven’t?” The hand that was still on her shoulder traced a line across her collarbone with a cool finger. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Draco’s thumb rubbed lower, towards her breast, and left a tingling line of heat. He met her eyes as if asking permission. “We should go back to Gryffindor.”

She understood he was offering her an easy way out. There was a pragmatic part of her that thought she should end things now so they could wake up in the morning with headaches and pretend they were too drunk to remember. 

She took his hand and placed it over her breast. He groaned and kissed her again, harder, and they stumbled into the closest empty classroom, slamming the door shut. He pressed her against it, groping her breast, and she kicked off her shoes and clumsily unbuttoned his shirt.

“Can I unzip your dress?” 

“Mhm-”

He practically ripped the dress off her and it fell down around her ankles. She shivered as the cool air hit her torso, and then she stood there in the nearly dark classroom in nothing but a pair of plain panties with a sizable damp spot in their crotch. To her surprise, Draco took a step back and looked her up and down. 

“What’re you doing?” she asked, crossing her arms over her breasts protectively. His shirt hung open and light from the window glinted off one of the buttons. 

“Just… looking at you. I can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

“Sounds like something a Gryffindor would say.”

He stepped closer and gently tugged at her wrists to make her move her arms. He kissed her again, and whispered into her mouth, “Can’t let the Gryffindors have all the fun.”

His erection pressed through his pants against her stomach. Hermione rolled her hips against his thigh, trying to relieve some of the pressure building between her legs. “We should lock the door.”

“You‘ll have to. It might look suspicious on my wand.”

She had completely forgotten about keeping track of her wand, but Draco managed to collect it. She cast a solid locking charm, then she conjured a pile of pillows, and he pressed her down into them. He teased his wand down her torso, between her breasts, stopping at her lower abdomen above her bladder. She thought she heard him mutter something but didn’t catch what it was, and then he tossed his wand out of the way and ground against her, dipping a hand under the hem of her panties.

She gasped, that syrupy arousal burning through her body as he rubbed between her legs. “Draco—keep doing that-”

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his face between her breasts. “I want to fuck you so bad.”

She scrabbled with his pants, trying to undo the button. “Then fuck me.”

He shucked his pants in an instant and his erection sprung out. Hermione sat up on her elbows to look at it. It was hard to see, but even so she knew he was large. 

He slipped a finger inside her, pumping in and out, and when she was relaxed and slippery he added a second finger and began rubbing his thumb over her clitoris. She arched up, gasping, and her inner walls tightened around him. He kept fingering her through her orgasm, and as the tremors faded he lowered himself over her, pressing kisses over her cheek and jaw and down her neck and chest. “Have you ever done this before?” he murmured.

“I- no.”

Something dark flashed in Draco’s eyes—something possessive. He positioned the blunt head of his erection against her and she widened her legs to allow him better access. He rubbed against her entrance and she pushed back, trying to impale him inside her. “Are you ready?” 

“Please-”

There was a stretching sensation as he pushed in. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. He was helped along by her looseness from the alcohol and her natural lubrication. She simply felt very full. He bottomed out. “How’s that?”

“It’s good,” Hermione said uncertainly. Was it supposed to feel more _magical?_

“Can I move?”

“Yeah—you can move.”

Draco pulled back and then began thrusting slowly. The friction _was_ pleasurable, as was the sensation of being caged under his body. She felt small and desired. Any doubt about Draco’s history was washed away by the blurring effect of alcohol. He thrusted harder and faster, bouncing her up on the pillows, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, sucking at a spot that tingled and ached. Something began to tug on his outstrokes. 

“I’m going to cum,” he panted.

“Okay,” she moaned, and then before she had the clarity to ask where, he thrust himself all the way in, catching at the base of his erection and locking them together. She felt him pulse as he came inside her, and he relaxed, nearly crushing her. “Draco!” He rolled them over so she was perched on top. She tried to pull off, but was stuck. “What’s going on?”

“This happens sometimes,” he said, already sounding sleepy and satisfied. “When I think of you while I jack off, I get this… expansion.”

“You think of me?” she asked shyly, testing again, trying to pull off.

“Ow.” He grabbed her hips to keep her seated. “Give it a minute. It’ll go away.”

She wiped sweat from her forehead and from between her breasts, and leaned forward to rest against his chest. “You think of me?”

“Constantly.”

She listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes. It was slowing. “Are things going to be weird now?”

“Are you going to remember this in the morning?”

She had never been _that_ drunk, she thought. “Yeah, I’ll remember.”

His hand threaded through her hair, gently tugging at tangles and muss. “I’m glad. Drink a glass of water before you go to sleep.”

Despite the fact that he was still physically inside her, she felt a strange sting of distance in his words. “Why did we do this?”

“Because we wanted to. You wanted to, right?”

“Of course I did. Are we- do you want to- are we going to do this again?”

“You want to get blasted and bang in empty classrooms on the reg?” Draco laughed breathily. “You’re kinkier than I thought, princess.”

“No, I mean-” She sat up again, her stomach tightening with anxiety. Maybe this had been a mistake. “You know what I mean.”

He softened enough for her to dismount with a pop and settle on her back next to him. He pulled her close, nuzzling his nose into her hair. “I want to do this again. I want to spend every moment with you. I don’t care if that makes me sound like a sappy Gryffindor.”

Hermione laughed and then yawned, and her buzz was still enough to push away the anxiety.

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow when we’re both sober, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed. She listened to the calm in and out of his breath, and a sleepy haze settled over her. He sat her up with a hand on her back and pressed a magically conjured goblet to her lips. She gulped the cool, fresh water, realizing how thirsty she had been. Then he pulled her close again, wrapping an arm around her waist and conjuring a blanket over them. As she fell asleep she thought she heard him murmuring, _you’re mine, I’ll protect you…_ but perhaps that had been part of her dream.

* * *

“Hermione Granger!” 

Hermione woke to a thudding headache, like the beat from the party had localized in her braincase. She squinted. The light outside was a dim pre-sunrise gray. A luminescent cat paced the air, swishing its tail. 

Hermione rolled over, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. She was cold and naked. Lying on a pile of pillows had left her back sore and her feet ached from dancing. Her mouth felt like it was filled with a layer of fuzzy moss. She conjured a glass and used _aguamenti_ to fill it, then looked for Draco.

Draco was gone.

She ached like an organ had been cut from her body. He had left her. He couldn’t even be bothered to wait for her to wake up. 

“Hermione Granger!” the patronus repeated in McGonagall’s voice, and when it saw she had woken, it said, “Come to the headmistress’s office immediately! The password is _Thessaly._ ” It dissipated. 

Hermione scanned the classroom for her dress and underwear. There was absolutely no way she could show up to McGonagall’s office dressed to go clubbing. The patronus had said immediately, but clothing was notoriously hard to conjure. If this was really urgent, she figured, McGonagall would’ve sent a person and not a patronus. 

Her watch read _The early bird catches the worm!_ She threw on her minidress and underwear, and vanished the cushions and blanket. She spotted a black crumpled shape on the floor and picked it up. Draco had left his suit jacket behind. It smelled comfortingly like him and she wrapped it around her shoulders. Maybe he had left it on purpose. She snatched up her shoes and jogged to Gryffindor, her bare feet slapping on the cold stone corridors. 

Pale sunrise lit the common room. She ran to her dorm, put her hair up, and changed into jeans and a turtleneck. The gusset of the jeans rubbed painfully between her legs. 

She hurried down quiet corridors to the entrance to the headmistress’s office, and the gargoyles let her in even before she said the password. She opened the door to the office apprehensively and found the room full of people.

Ron, Neville, Luna, Anthony, Draco, Ernie, and an extremely stern McGonagall.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, “take a seat. We’ve been waiting for you. Mr. Malfoy has explained what he knows about ‘the alpha and omega thing’, but I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d like to hear the details from you.”

Her throat seized as though preparing to vomit. She looked over the six seated students again, counting them, and then she turned and looked around the office. The five known alphas were present, but only two of the three omegas. “Where’s Ginny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of the sex scene: Draco and Hermione have drunk sex in an empty classroom. Draco finishes inside Hermione.
> 
> I feel like having Draco and Hermione bang this early in the story is going to be controversial. I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for the mental load that comes with being responsible for posting week after week, since my last story was written and published over 8 consecutive days. I DO know where this story is going and still have a couple chapters in my backlog, but I’m having some stress in my personal life which is pushing me to try and get this done on a smaller scale than originally planned. So I’m currently aiming to wrap this up in about 15-20 chapters/~70k words. As always, thanks for reading and all your support!
> 
> Next up: I bet you can guess (“McGonagall’s Office”)
> 
> Update on Sunday Feb. 14th. :)


	8. McGonagall's Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny has gone into heat, and McGonagall wants an explanation from Draco and Hermione. Draco notices something odd about McGonagall’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's your lucky day... maybe... please read the end notes but basically i'm gonna just post the chapters i still have over the next couple days
> 
> no warnings for this chapter!

McGonagall had redecorated. Where Dumbledore had kept a menagerie of whirligigs and golden instruments, and Snape had kept nothing, she kept orderly stacks of books and notebooks. The portraits of former headmasters peered down in blatant interest, even the portrait of Dumbledore, although Dumbledore at least had an eye in his book. 

Draco scanned the walls for the portrait of Snape. As a former headmaster, no matter how short his tenure, he was due a portrait. It would not be beyond McGonagall to commission a very small one and place it way up high in the corner, but after several passes Draco had to conclude it was missing. 

Ernie Macmillan jiggled his leg furiously. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“You’re an alpha,” Draco snapped. “I literally just explained.”

“Yes, but the rest of you-” He waved his hand generally. “-all know each other. You’re all Potter’s crew.”

“Call me Potter’s crew again,” Draco growled.

“I wouldn’t call myself part of his inner circle,” slurred Anthony Goldstein. “I knew him through DA, same as you, Ernie.”

“Potter’s crew or not,” Macmillan said smugly, ignoring Goldstein, “it’s common knowledge you were obsessed with Potter for years.”

Draco lunged out of his chair. “Do you want to go?”

“Slytherin scum-”

“Pompous prick-”

“Enough,” McGonagall barked. “Let’s wait for Miss Granger.” Draco and Macmillan fell back into their seats, simmering.

Luna swung her feet, looking around the office. Longbottom picked at his nails. Draco observed with vindictive pleasure that Weasley was pale and staring at his knees with a tight-lipped expression as though he was going to be sick. While explaining the alpha and omega problem, Draco had emphasized the power of compulsion that the alpha could exert over an omega—intentional or not. 

“Maybe we should go get her,” Longbottom offered. “She was at the Ravenclaw party last night. She might be sleeping in.”

Dread flickered through Draco. He had left her in that empty sixth floor classroom. He was a bad alpha, abandoning his omega unprotected like that. 

“How would you get up the stairs to the girl’s dormitory?” Weasley mumbled. 

Longbottom had no answer for this. Something scraped at the door, and everyone whirled around. 

The door opened to reveal Hermione, her pretty curls from the party crushed by sleep, and deep bags under her eyes. Draco bristled as the other alphas stared; he wanted to grab her and pull her into his chest so none of them could see her. 

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, “take a seat. We’ve been waiting for you. Mr. Malfoy has explained what he knows about ‘the alpha and omega thing’, but I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d like to hear the details from you.” She conjured a chair and nodded pointedly.

“Where’s Ginny?” Hermione asked. 

“Please sit, Miss Granger.”

Hermione hesitantly took a seat. 

“Last night, Miss Thompson woke to the sound of screaming. She thought they were being attacked, but found Miss Weasley alone in her bed. Miss Thompson ran to Madam Pomfrey, and in quick order Miss Weasley had been transported to the hospital wing.” McGonagall’s voice took on the sharp, sing-songy tone of a storyteller in a hurry. “Evidently her presence in the halls roused some of the young men in Hogwarts from around the castle, and by the time Madam Pomfrey alerted me to the situation, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goldstein, Mr. Macmillan and Mr. Longbottom had all gathered outside the hospital wing. Mr. Malfoy had the good sense to cast a bubble head charm on himself, and convinced Mr. Goldstein, Mr. Macmillan and Mr. Longbottom to do the same. When I arrived, Mr. Malfoy made an attempt at explaining what he calls ‘the alpha and omega thing’, and informed me that Miss Lovegood, Mr. Weasley and you yourself, Miss Granger, were also involved. He assured me that you could give a better explanation. We have been waiting on you.”

Draco caught Hermione’s eye and gave what he hoped was a fortifying nod. She looked utterly lost—she had probably woken only minutes ago. 

“Well,” Hermione said, “I’m not sure how much Draco has told you…”

“Start wherever you need,” McGonagall said crossly. “Miss Weasley is only in agony as we speak.”

“Sorry,” she said, and shrank in her chair. She began to explain what she knew, and as she talked, she picked up speed, as she did when answering in class. Much of it Draco had already explained, but Hermione added in details he hadn’t known. Alphas and omegas presented when they were post-pubescent, but not yet finished growing—thus, they were most likely to be found among the seventh and eighth year classes. The more an alpha used his compulsion on an omega, the less ability the omega had to resist. Ginny Weasley had confided her suspicions in Hermione that something had changed about her body when her sense of smell sharpened. Hermione knew heats came every three months, but hadn’t thought any of the omegas would be affected so soon, nor that the alphas would sniff it out from across the castle. 

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is there any way to… relieve the heat?”

“In the book I read, the only thing that can stop the pain is, um, the presence of a male, preferably an alpha.”

“The presence?”

“You know,” Hermione hedged. “Like… to tend to her physical… needs.”

“Sex,” Goldstein interjected. Draco kicked him. 

“That’s really all I know about it,” Hermione finished, sounding glad to be done. “Draco and I were doing research together. It’s a very rare condition. There haven’t been any alphas or omegas reported in almost a hundred and fifty years.”

“And close contact with a witch in heat-” McGonagall pursed her lips. “A detestable phrase, as if witches can be compared to dogs.”

“If it rhymes,” Goldstein mumbled. 

“Are you still drunk?” Draco hissed. 

“Almost assuredly.”

“Contact with a witch experiencing a heightened state,” continued McGonagall, louder, “causes wizards who have presented as alphas to experience a similarly heightened state. Am I correct, Miss Granger?”

“Yes.” 

“Four of the young men in this room came running to the hospital wing when Miss Weasley started experiencing heat, but none of them started a parallel rut. So we can infer that the contact must be close. That is a good thing. Now I have a question for all of you: how many knew about this ‘alpha and omega problem’?”

Slowly, Draco, Hermione, Goldstein, and Luna raised their hands. 

“Fifty points from Slytherin and Gryffindor. One hundred points from Ravenclaw. We’ll discuss further repercussions later. I _cannot believe_ not a single one of you thought to tell an adult about a serious magical malady running rampant in Hogwarts. Now we face the urgent matter of finding other witches and wizards who are affected by this ‘alpha and omega problem’. All of you are to go back to your dorms until I have spoken with the experts from St. Mungo’s. You are not to leave your rooms. You are not to have contact with each other. Food will be delivered.” Her gaze passed coldly from face to face. “Miss Granger and Miss Lovegood will take the floo. The rest of you will walk.”

Longbottom and Weasley whispered something to each other, looking at Hermione. Hermione gripped the seat of her chair so hard her knuckles had gone white. 

“Well?” McGonagall thundered. With a wave of her wand, the door to her office slammed open. “Get going!”

Everyone stood and there was much shuffling of feet and wide berths given as the boys pushed toward the exit and the girls towards the fireplace. 

“Not you, Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione was the last to leave. She looked back at Draco, an unreadable expression on her face. The hearth flared green and she stepped through, leaving Draco alone with McGonagall. All the chairs had vanished, so he folded his hands in front of him and stood, head bowed, trying not to make it obvious he was looking around. 

McGonagall tossed a handful of floo powder in the fireplace. “Horace Slughorn’s quarters,” she said, and the fire blazed green. “Horace, please come at once, you are needed.” She took a seat at her desk and appraised Draco. 

_What is going to happen to me?_ Draco wanted to ask, but could not make his voice work. Dampness spread under his armpits. 

He looked up at Dumbledore. 

Draco had done occlumency lessons in this very office. He had been better at it by his seventh year, or perhaps Snape had been less determined, more preoccupied with the war. There had been days when Draco left the office trembling but triumphant, having concealed his mind as Snape demanded, and there had been days when Draco sat by Snape’s desk for hours, waiting for the lesson to begin, while the former potions master wrote his correspondences or read or stared out the window. On those days, Draco looked openly at the portraits. He knew better than to speak to them. But he could have sworn, sometimes, that Dumbledore was trying to communicate with him. 

Draco had never been left in the headmaster’s office alone. He had never gotten the chance to speak with Dumbledore’s portrait privately.

Dumbledore fixed his steady gaze on Draco once again. 

Draco wiped his palms on his pants and crossed his arms over his chest. The hearth blazed up again, and Slughorn tumbled out, wrapped in a plush bathrobe. “Minerva, what is the-” 

McGonagall nodded curtly in the direction of Draco.

“What’s happened? Should we contact the ministry?” Slughorn murmured behind his hand, as though this would prevent Draco from hearing him.

“In a moment that may be necessary, but Mr. Malfoy has not _technically_ violated his probation yet.” McGonagall explained the alpha and omega problem, while Slughorn went increasingly paler. 

“Dear Merlin,” he said at last. “I can start looking into novel treatments, suppressants-”

“We can discuss that later. I brought you here to act as Mr. Malfoy’s advocate.”

“Advocate? I’m not sure I’m qualified-”

“You are the Slytherin Head of House.”

“I’m the _acting_ Slytherin Head of House. I came back as a favor to Albus, and I’m now here a second year longer than intended. Perhaps I could discharge my duties in this particular circumstance to Professor Sinistra or Professor Vector-”

“Who were both Ravenclaws-”

“Who are both perfectly competent!” Spittle flew from Slughorn’s mouth and flecked McGonagall’s desk. “This old rule—nay, this old _convention_ —comes from the same line of traditionalist head-in-the-sand hogwash that started the war! I’ve told you once and I’ll tell you again, if you intend to only ever have a Slytherin as head of Slytherin house then you may as well shut the house down. Good luck, Minerva! You will _not_ stop me from retiring at the end of this year!” He turned, hastily wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Draco my boy, good morning, let’s see what the matter is and how we can solve it, yes? Why don’t you sit?” A green chintz armchair appeared and creaked as he settled into it. 

Draco took this as permission to conjure a chair. He chose a plain three-legged stool. 

McGonagall didn’t seem to know who to address, refusing to meet Slughorn’s eyes but also unable to look directly at Draco. She settled on a middle point above their shoulders. “There were some interesting details about Miss Granger’s explanation, and about the circumstances in which I found you outside the hospital wing, that lead me to believe you know more than you are letting on. She was quite specific that she was researching with you, and not with one of her close friends like Miss or Mr. Weasley. All of the other gentlemen on the scene agree that you were the one who thought to cast the bubble head charm. I’d like to give you this chance to explain yourself before I bring in the aurors.”

“Now, Minerva,” Slughorn said, “a magical malady is serious, but surely not an issue of dark wizardry.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said, plainly determined to ignore Slughorn. “If you’d please.”

Draco glanced between the headmistress and his Head of House. 

“Go on, boy,” Slughorn murmured.

“Alphas and omegas are… known… in certain pureblood circles,” Draco began. “There haven’t been any in over a century, like Hermione said, but I’ve heard them spoken of like creatures from folklore.”

“Folkloric creatures exist,” McGonagall said. 

Draco swallowed, trying to think. No matter what McGonagall had said, he got the distinct impression his probation balanced on his next words. “I suppose I mean that alphas and omegas are regarded as folkloric creatures like… succubi and incubi. Creatures which haven’t been proven to exist.”

“Except alphas and omegas _do_ clearly exist.”

“His metaphors aren’t terribly apt, are they?” Slughorn jumped in. “Draco, tell us what is known about alphas and omegas among pureblood circles that Miss Granger couldn’t have gotten from a book.”

Draco tried to speak but his mouth had gone completely dry. He cleared his throat and chewed his tongue to try and produce saliva. “Ehm. I suppose I’ve heard them talked about as… objects. Such that if any had presented in the last century, they would have been…” He pressed a clammy hand to the back of his neck, trying to cool his flush. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. _Mother in the garden with a cup of tea. Astraea sleeping in the owlrey. Hermione’s hand in mine, and my hand on her waist._

“It’s alright,” Slughorn encouraged. “There are no repercussions for what you say here.”

“...collected,” Draco finished lamely. 

McGonagall opened her mouth and then didn’t speak. Draco stared at a thick filing folder on her desk. It was titled _House Elf Register._ Underneath, the words _Linen Accounts_ had been crossed out. 

McGonagall finally said, “Miss Granger and you both spoke at length about the power of compulsion that alphas have over omegas.”

“I never did anything—Luna and Hermione will say the same thing—if anything it’s Ron Weasley who-”

“Nevertheless,” McGonagall cut over him, “I think it best if you plan not to have close contact with any of the witches who are identified as omegas until we deem it safe.”

“There might be more,” Draco said. “I think all of the alphas in the school outed themselves when they came to the hospital wing, but there might be more omegas. You’ll need an alpha to identify them. Granger was the one who found the other alphas, but I was the one who found Luna Lovegood.”

“Your help in that regard will not be necessary. If there are more witches suffering from this alpha and omega problem, we will find them through interview or ask one of the other young men to help with identification.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“You’ll stay in your dormitory until further notice.” To Slughorn, she said, “We’ll need to call a staff meeting. Maybe we should cancel classes until we’ve screened the student body.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” said Slughorn. “The parents will be in shambles…”

“They will be in shambles either way once it gets out that Mr. Malfoy was involved. The letters I get, every day, demanding his immediate expulsion…” McGonagall shot Draco a frigid glare. “We’d better do your weekly wand check now.”

“Due diligence,” Slughorn added kindly.

Draco’s weekly wand check thus far had involved reporting to Slughorn’s office for a session of _priori incantatem._ He pulled his wand from his robe and handed it to McGonagall. Rather than casting _priori incantatem,_ she opened the door to a back room and gestured for Slughorn to follow.

“Won’t be but a minute, my boy,” Slughorn said, and then Draco was alone.

Alone except for the dozens of former headmasters, all pretending to be occupied with whatever painted diversion they had been provided. 

Draco shot a glance towards the closed door. “Dumbledore?”

Dumbledore did not lift his eyes from his book.

“Professor Dumbledore? Headmaster? Did you want to speak with me?”

“We are all headmaster here,” declared the portrait of a rickety, hollow-faced old man from high on the wall. 

“Or headmistress,” added a deep-voiced woman.

 _You all bloody well know who I’m talking to._ “Professor Dumbledore, I’ve seen you looking at me,” Draco said. “I thought maybe you wanted to talk-”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” said the deep-voiced woman.

“Not even Minerva McGonagall,” said a nasal voice that Draco recognized as Phineas Nigellus Black. “He hasn’t talked to anyone since Severus left.”

“It’s a right shame,” said a portrait of a woman holding a telescope. 

“It’s irresponsible,” Armando Dippet boomed. “It’s a dereliction of duty!”

The portraits tittered in agreement. Draco got the sense they weren’t talking to him, but to Dumbledore. 

“What do you mean, since Severus left?” Draco asked, trying to keep the conversation on track. He eyed the door, knowing McGonagall and Slughorn could be back any second. “You mean, since he died?”

“Since his portrait was removed-”

“-stolen away in the dead of night-”

“-or taken and hidden-”

“-Minerva refuses to address it-”

“-refuses to reproach Albus Dumbledore-”

The door opened and the portraits fell silent, busying themselves with their books and cauldrons and telescopes. McGonagall handed Draco his wand. “Everything is in order. Horace will see you back to your dormitory.”

Slughorn put a plump hand on Draco’s shoulder. “We’ll take the floo.”

Some of the floo powder dissolved in Draco’s sweaty hand and stained his skin green. He looked over his shoulder. Dumbledore had lowered his book to watch again.

“Come, my boy,” said Slughorn. “We’ll figure this out. You can take the day off, hm? The house elves will deliver something nice for breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if I’ll finish this story. Sorry :( As a former fanfiction-loving teen, I always swore that if I ever wrote any fanfiction myself, I’d never (never!) be one of those authors who left a story unfinished. But here I am. Apparently it was my destiny to grow up and become the very thing I despised. Who made up the rule that real life has to take precedence over fanfiction, anyway? I’ve got two and a half more chapters written and I’ll post the two finished ones on the 9th and the 10th. After that, I can't promise more updates with any certainty.
> 
> Next up: “Words That Hurt”
> 
> Update on Tuesday Feb. 9th


	9. Words That Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives an anonymous letter, and Ginny comes back to school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is interspersed with a misogynistic slur. I’ve put the word at the end if you’d like not to be caught off guard.

Less than a day after McGonagall confined the known alphas and omegas to their dormitories, the entire school knew what had happened. Hermione hadn’t been planning to tell Parvati, but it wasn’t easy to hide from her only remaining roommate when she couldn’t leave their shared room. She had made up some lie about not feeling well, and Parvati had been all sympathy, worrying that Hermione had caught whatever poor Ginny had had. 

But the other alphas, or maybe Luna, had not been so tight-lipped. From the confines of her room, with Parvati as her only contact, Hermione couldn’t know for sure who had leaked it first, although she would not be surprised if the information had gotten out through Neville and Ron. She couldn’t blame them for wanting to talk about the alpha and omega problem while holed up together, and they had probably let something slip to Dean or Seamus. 

Late in the afternoon of Hermione’s first day of confinement, Parvati had burst in, distraught, demanding to know what alphas and omegas were and all their symptoms. The rumors were all over the school.

McGonagall came knocking the next morning, with a new schedule. The alphas and omegas were being funnelled into separate classes. In some cases, Hermione had simply been transferred from the eighth year class to the seventh year class. In the case of Ancient Runes, which didn’t have a separate seventh and eighth year class, she was doing a private tutorial with Professor Babbling once a week. 

“The young men who have been identified as alphas have received strict orders not to approach any of the young ladies who are omegas,” McGonagall said. 

Changing their class schedules was one thing, but they couldn’t exactly create separate mealtimes, or segregate the library, or designate certain corridors for omegas and others for alphas. And Ginny was the captain of the quidditch team. Would she be prohibited from letting Ron onto the team?

McGonagall waited expectantly. 

“What if _I_ want to talk to one of the alphas?” Hermione asked. “Can I still sit with Ron and Neville in the Great Hall? Will Ginny be allowed to talk to her brother?”

“There is nothing prohibiting you from approaching your friends. But given the testimony you gave—about the unfortunate compulsion Mr. Weasley used on you—we would like to protect you and your fellow omega witches from advances-”

“Ron won’t be punished, will he? He didn’t know. I never got the chance to tell him.”

“No,” McGonagall said. “As you said. He didn’t know. As for you…”

Hermione shrank. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yes. I _cannot imagine_ what was running through your head when you decided not to. I suppose you thought you knew better than professionally trained healers and researchers from St. Mungo’s?”

“No-”

“I really expected better from you.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said automatically. Shame sunk through her stomach. She had always been too beholden to the approval of her professors.

McGonagall examined her face. “I’m not sure you are. You’ll be serving detention on Wednesday and Friday nights for the rest of term. Eight o’clock. My office. You’ll be marking transfiguration homework for the first through third years.”

“Professor?” Hermione asked, faintly surprised that she was getting off with something so easy. She rather expected to be sent to muck out the owlery.

“Not all of them are as good a student as you were,” McGonagall said coolly. “It won’t be as easy as you’re expecting.”

Hermione took lunch in her room. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting from McGonagall. Sympathy, maybe? But McGonagall had every reason to be furious with Hermione. During her interview last evening, they asked why she hadn’t alerted the professors to the problem sooner.

Her answer was honestly given: she hadn’t thought the alpha and omega problem posed a real danger to anyone. Ginny had clearly said that she was able to resist compulsion from Justin. Until that flying lesson with Ron, Hermione thought she would be able to resist also, if she truly needed to. And she had been planning to talk to McGonagall about it. Eventually.

Sometimes, ironically, Hermione missed the endless months of camping and running, the long periods of intense boredom punctuated by explosions of intense fear. The mind has a clever way of smoothing away rough edges of memory, like not showering for days and days, or having to steal period supplies from muggle stores, or the moments when she craved something sweet so badly she would’ve traded Ron to the dementors for a packet of sugary biscuits. Those days had been miserable and hard, but they were hers, a life where she was her own higher power.

Sometimes she forgot she was a student again, accountable to professors. She drifted through the hallways like a memory of that time from before. Expulsion no longer seemed like a fate worse than death. There was a world outside Hogwarts—she knew that now.

Sometimes she wondered if she just missed Harry so bad it was messing with her head. It was making her do the very things she would have scolded him for. That had to be the reason why she wanted to see Draco again.

* * *

_MUDBLOOD WHORE._

The words were inky and uneven, like someone had painstakingly dragged their quill along the paper. Whore. Whore. Hermione read the two words several times, struggling to believe what she was seeing. 

A group of sixth years sat down at the Gryffindor table next to her, plates of breakfast appearing before them. Hermione folded the letter and stuck it under her napkin, her hands shaky. She ate a bite of eggs and struggled to swallow. Mudblood whore.

Abruptly she stood and stuck the letter under the sleeve of her robe and left the Great Hall. All notions of hunger had faded. She put her back to the wall in a quieter corridor and opened the paper again, holding a hand behind it so no one might read it through the paper. For some odd reason, she expected it to read something different when she looked at it a second time, but there it was:

_MUDBLOOD WHORE._

Two words. Someone had gone to the effort to send her a letter with only two words. No signature. 

Did someone know? Had someone seen her in the corridor with Draco?

Her heart beat fast. She pulled out her wand and tapped the paper, her wand point landing squarely in the center of the D. “Specialis Revelio.”

Nothing happened. It was just a letter.

The letter crumpled as she stuffed it into her bag. 

“Hermione!” Luna wibbled her copy of the Quibbler as Hermione entered the potions classroom. “Let’s be desk mates.”

Hermione hovered her cauldron next to Luna’s. Hannah Abbott and Padma Patil had been transferred into seventh year potions as well, and were sitting next to each other across the room. Were they omegas also? Hermione waved politely. Padma lifted her hand in greeting, giving a tight smile. Hannah wrinkled her nose as if she had smelled something bad, and whispered something in Padma’s ear.

Whore. 

Hermione pressed down a nervous, angry impulse to go confront Padma and Hannah. There would be time to talk to them later. 

“Welcome, ladies!” Slughorn said, rolling into class. “Miss Granger, I’m especially glad to see you, I was thinking it’s time to have a Slug Club dinner—perhaps we can even rope in our old friend Harry.” He winked and went to the front of the room to address the class as a whole. “Today marks the first day of our alchemy unit. Who can tell me the base goal of all alchemy?” 

Hermione had been looking forward to the alchemy unit since fifth year, but when Slughorn looked at her expectantly for the answer, she wanted to crumple into a tiny ball. 

“Surely someone must know,” Slughorn said. “Miss Granger?”

Hermione swallowed dryly. “Um. The base goal of alchemy is…”

Her mind went blank. _The base goal of alchemy. To get past Fluffy with a mouth organ, to solve a riddle where the wrong answer meant death, to grow up and defeat the Dark Lord and try to live a normal life only for it to keep slipping from between the cracks in your fingers. Unicorn blood. Chocolate frogs. Nicholas Flamel, and the clue they had missed. Whore._ People were looking, where was the Brightest Witch of Her Age’s answer? 

“Lead into gold,” Luna prompted under her breath. “Elixir of immortality.”

Hermione stammered out an answer.

“Indeed,” Slughorn boomed. “Your knowledge of the theory of transfiguration will be paramount for your understanding of this unit. Transfiguration alters the physical properties of an object. The transfigured object will refer back to the original object, in size, shape, or behavior. Transmutation permanently alters the elemental properties of a substance. A teacup can be transfigured into a mouse, but the mouse will always be a teacup on a metaphysical level, and can be transfigured back. When lead is transmuted into gold, it truly becomes gold.”

At the end of class, Slughorn asked Hermione to stay behind. 

“Do you want me to wait?” Luna asked. 

“No,” Hermione said numbly. 

Luna gave her a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

_Mudblood whore. Whore. Whore._

“I’m fine,” Hermione said, and turned towards Slughorn. When Luna had gone, his jovial smile dropped.

“I noticed you seemed off in class today,” he said. “I would have thought you could teach the entire alchemy unit yourself. Is… is everything alright with you? You’re not having… feminine problems?”

Hermione’s body was cold and stiff and alien. _Put a stash of tampons in the girl’s bathroom and everything will be fine!_

“Miss Granger?” Slughorn repeated gently. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

She wanted to tell someone about the letter, but not Slughorn or a professor. She didn’t want them thinking of her and the words _mudblood whore_ in the same sentence. She wasn’t sure she’d even be able to tell Luna, or Ginny if she ever came back; they’d be filled with too much righteous indignation. For a moment she thought of Draco, but she hadn’t been able to find Draco since being let out of confinement. Was he avoiding her? Every day that passed without his face hollowed her out a bit more. No, right now she wanted Harry. At least she knew _why_ she couldn’t see Harry. 

“Someone told me,” she said haltingly, “that they think communications in and out of the castle are being monitored.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “The parents aren’t supposed to know about the alpha and omega problem yet.”

“Is it possible for a letter to pass through other means?”

“We are witches and wizards, my dear, I’d be a fool to say something isn’t possible. What means are you thinking of?”

“...House elf magic.”

Slughorn clapped a hand to his forehead dramatically. “House elves. One would think that after the role they played in the war we would remember to include them in our enchantments, and yet here we are. Thus goes the folly of tradition. I’ll have to speak to Minerva.” He paused, seeming to remember the original reason he asked Hermione to stay. “With Minerva acting as Headmistress, she has let her duties as head of Gryffindor fall to the wayside. I hope you know that you can come to me for help as well.” 

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered.

He chuckled, turning away as if to shatter too much intimacy. “Slug Club connections have to be good for something, hm? Now if only we could get the old group back together. If I could entice Harry… hm. Much planning to do…”

“If you don’t need me for anything else,” Hermione said leadingly, and Slughorn let her go, already plotting how he was going to lure his star trophy back to Hogwarts. 

* * *

“Thessaly.”

Hermione reported to her first detention with some apprehension, but McGonagall wasn’t in the headmistress’s office when she arrived. There was a stack of first and second year essays on the desk, and Hermione picked these up, conjuring herself a seat and beginning to read through them. She’d wait to mark until she read McGonagall’s rubric, but she wanted to get a feel for their writing.

Merlin, even the best of them were bad. Was this really the caliber of work she had been doing in second year? When the plain desk clock said it was quarter to nine, Hermione put down the essay she was struggling through and rubbed her eyes, looking around the room. The desk was clean, except for the clock and a quill stand. Hermione glanced up at the wall of previous headmasters and headmistresses, her eyes instinctively going to Dumbledore. 

He lowered his book and adjusted his glasses, gazing serenely at her. Hermione gave an awkward wave. “Hi, Professor Dumbledore.”

The other portraits watched to see what Dumbledore would do. He didn’t speak, or give any indication that he’d heard her. Feeling rather watched, she returned to the essay she had been reading. 

McGonagall returned from a staff meeting a few minutes after nine, and as Hermione marked the essays according to the rubric, it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Snape’s portrait anywhere on the wall. 

* * *

Despite returning to a routine of meals in the Great Hall and studying in the library, the alphas at the school were doing a remarkable job of staying away from Hermione. With the exception of Neville, who she occasionally cajoled into eating breakfast with her, she had barely laid eyes on any of the alphas. She desperately wanted to talk to Draco, but he was impossible to find. She even tried waiting outside his classes, to no avail. It was as if he had vanished from Hogwarts altogether. Ron’s disappearance was also mysterious. When she sat in the common room for five hours over the weekend and Ron didn’t pass through once, she began to wonder if perhaps he was using the Marauder’s Map to avoid her. 

Then Ginny came back.

Hermione leaped on her, hugging her and then holding her delicately as if she had been remade out of spun glass during the time she had been missing from Hogwarts. Ginny looked haggard. Her long hair, which she normally took such good care of, had lost its healthy shine. Hormonal acne dotted her jawline. But she was in good spirits.

“I’m so glad to be back,” Ginny said. “Mum would’ve kept me home all term. She was babying me to death.”

“What was it like?” Hermione asked. “The heat?”

Ginny turned away, looking towards the boy’s dorm. “Where’s Ron?”

Ron appeared as if out of thin air and hugged his sister long and hard. It was the first time Hermione had ever seen Ron and Ginny express physical affection that didn’t involve hitting each other. 

“I was so worried,” he muttered into Ginny’s hair. 

“I’m alright. I’m alright.” 

Ron released her after a lung-crushing few seconds. “Let’s get dinner. They’re serving a trifle for dessert. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week-”

“I leave Mum at home only to find she’s at Hogwarts also,” Ginny sniped. 

“I’m just saying,” Ron said, crossing his arms and falling back into that bossy tone he usually took with his sister, “you look like a snitch could body slam you off your broom right now.”

“Let’s all get dinner together.” Ginny gestured to Hermione.

Ron had been doing a masterful job of ignoring Hermione, but Ginny’s suggestion forced him to look her way. Hermione gave a tight smile. She wasn’t about to miss Ginny’s first night back, and unfortunately, neither was Ron. 

It was the first time Hermione had gone to the Great Hall during peak dining hours since she had been allowed out of her room. She had been sticking to early breakfasts, late lunches, and dinners in her room. A hiss passed around the hall as they walked in. 

Ginny crossed her arms over her stomach, holding to her elbows. “This is weird,” she muttered.

Blood pounded in Hermione’s ears and she could almost hear what they were thinking. _Whore._ Could someone have seen her and Draco in the corridor? The letter was hidden away at the bottom of her trunk. No one knew. No one knew.

Ron bared his teeth. “What’re you looking at?” he snapped at a young group of Hufflepuffs. “Wanna get hexed?”

“Don’t bully the first years,” Ginny said blandly. 

“We’re second years,” one of the Hufflepuffs said. 

They sat down at the end of the long table, Ron and Ginny on one side and Hermione on the other. Dishes appeared, and Ron started piling mashed potatoes onto his sister’s plate. Both Hermione and Ginny stared at him. He added two steaks next to the mound of potatoes. There was a blankness in his expression.

“Do you expect me to eat all that?” Ginny asked, as he lined the edge of her plate with stewed greens. 

Something broke in Ron’s expression and his hand faltered. “Uh-”

“It’s fine,” Ginny said, obviously wanting to avoid an argument. “You take some.” She started scooping food onto Ron’s plate, but he took over for her, shoveling half of the food onto his plate, and then shoving it across to Hermione. 

This was the first meal Hermione had eaten with Ron since the reveal that he was an alpha. It was the first time they had really seen each other. She pulled a napkin into her lap, running her finger along the hem. 

Ron refused to serve himself until Ginny and Hermione had begun eating. Ginny met Hermione’s eyes across the table. _He’s being weird, right?_

Hermione nodded. _He’s being weird._

“So what have I missed?” Ginny asked, her mouth full of greens.

With a sideways glance to Ron, who was now gorging himself on a homestyle swirl of greens and potatoes, Hermione began describing what was happening in each of their shared classes. They took different electives—someone else would have to help Ginny there—but they were now in the same seventh year core classes. 

“The joint alchemy unit.” Ginny groaned. “I’ve heard it’s ass with Slughorn. Apparently he’s a terrible alchemist.” Privately, Hermione thought Slughorn was a mediocre teacher all around, but she didn’t share this opinion, given that everyone liked him so much better than Snape. 

The conversation kept starting and stalling. With Ron there, Hermione couldn’t ask Ginny the questions she really wanted to know: what was the heat like? And with Ginny there, she couldn’t ask Ron, _what’s going on between us now?_

Ginny’s sleeve rode up, revealing the edge of a red mark. 

“What’s that?” Ron said sharply.

She tugged her sleeve but he grabbed her arm and pulled it up. Red lines scraped across her wrist, like she had been scratching herself violently. She tried to jerk away but Ron had a vice grip on her arm, and they quaked the table in their struggle. Ginny snarled and slammed into Ron’s jaw with her elbow. 

He released her, rubbing his jaw. She pulled her sleeve back down protectively. 

“The hell is wrong with you?” she asked. People had stopped talking to watch their fight. 

“Is that from the heat?” he asked, sounding lost.

“You’re my brother,” she said under her breath. “Ew.”

“Fuck me for worrying about you, huh? I’ve barely slept since they took you to St. Mungo’s. Let’s go to Madam Pomfrey, she can heal your arm-”

“I don’t need it! I-” Her eyes darted around the Great Hall at the curious students. “Hermione, let’s go. We can review your notes for the classes I missed.” She stood and stalked out of the hall.

“You didn’t finish your food,” Ron called after her, but she didn’t stop, her hair blazing behind her. 

Hermione half-stood, debating whether to hurry after Ginny, or to steal this chance to talk to Ron before he went back to avoiding her. No, they had better do this now. She sat. 

“Not going after her?” Ron muttered. He stuffed an enormous bite of steak into his mouth and chewed furiously. 

Hermione watched his jaw work. “How have you been?”

He took a deep swig of pumpkin juice. He drank too fast and coughed, his face going red. When he had his breath under control, he answered, “Everyone treats me like I’m about to fly off the handle and strangle a first year, but other than that, I’ve been peachy.”

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard the rumors?” he said bitterly. “Alphas are unstable. Ernie and Neville had an argument and started duelling in the corridor outside charms.”

“Neville?” Hermione repeated, struggling to imagine it. “And Ernie? Neville didn’t say anything about this.”

“Flitwick had to break them up. Anthony keeps doing accidental magic. He blew up a cauldron.”

“And what have _you_ done?”

Ron made a face at his plate. “Nothing.”

Somehow, that seemed unlikely. 

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Fine,” Hermione said, rubbing the hem of her napkin under the table again. “I’ve been hanging out with Luna more.”

“Oh. Luna. You know Hannah Abbott and Padma Patil are also omegas. That makes five omegas, and five alphas.”

“How do you know?” Hermione hadn’t heard any word of more omegas in the castle, but it made obvious sense that Hannah and Padma were omegas, since they had also been transferred into the seventh year classes.

“Um.” Ron started cutting into his steak again. “They’ve been bringing me and Neville in to sniff people. Girls, I mean. All the seventh and eighth years. Maybe they think it’s okay because we’re ‘heroes’ or whatever, but it’s really weird. How do you politely sniff someone?”

“That’s weird,” Hermione agreed, and they both let out a laugh, and things felt normal. Was now the right time to bring it up? 

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, eyes on his plate. 

“For-?”

“For, uh, for everything. I didn’t realize I was controlling you, or using compulsion, or whatever it’s called. I mean—you acted like you liked it.” He cracked an ironic smile, but let it fall when Hermione didn’t smile back. “Should’ve known something was up when you agreed to go flying with me. Would you believe me if I said it was a test?”

“A test.”

“I thought you were acting weird. I knew you wouldn’t normally want to go flying. But then once we were in the air, you seemed to really be enjoying it, and I thought, well, maybe this is real. I _wanted_ it to be real, y’know?” He laid his hand on the table, a limp offering. 

“I know you wanted it to be real,” Hermione said, a lump in her throat. She glanced at the Gryffindors who sat a few feet down. They were absorbed in their own conversation. “But maybe we can focus on being friends?”

“Sure,” Ron said, letting his hand slip from the table. “Sure sure.”

They ate in silence for a minute. 

“I can smell it,” he said out of nowhere.

Hermione frowned. “Um. I suppose you’re going to elaborate?”

“I can… smell someone else on you.”

 _Whore._ Hermione laughed nervously. “Y-you what?”

“Have you been with someone else?”

“I don’t-” Hermione rubbed the hem of her napkin harder, digging it under her fingernail. People were watching. Judging. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s my business if someone’s been hurting my best friend-”

“No one’s been _hurting_ me-”

“Who was it? Anthony? I’ll turn him into a rat and use him for a bludger-”

“Merlin, Ron, it’s really none of your business!” Hermione stood, throwing her napkin on the table. “I want us to go back to normal but if you’re going to act like this then maybe-”

He surged across the table and grabbed her by the wrist. Hermione’s brain turned off. Alpha says submit. She stared, wide eyed, at the panic in Ron’s face. Why did he seem so scared? What was there to be scared of, when her alpha was here to take care of things? Is this my alpha? I don’t think this is my alpha-

All the noise and smell and light burst back in. Hermione yanked her wrist away and wobbled backwards, bracing herself on the table, then vaulted over the bench and hurried towards the exit. 

“Wait, Hermione-” Ron jogged after her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think-”

“You _never_ think,” Hermione hissed, drawing her wand. Tears shone bright in her eyes. “I’m going to find Ginny. Don’t you dare follow me.” Her skin burned all over and a heavy sickness settled in her chest as she left Ron behind at the entrance to the Great Hall. Bad omega, bad Hermione. She should have submitted, she should have done what he wanted.

She hated these stupid instincts. He was _Ron,_ a boy she had met on the train to Hogwarts when she was eleven. There had been a time in her life when she lay in her bed, content and happy, and thought that her friendship with Ron and Harry was the closest she would ever get to having siblings. 

Instead of pulling out her notebooks to help Ginny study, she beelined for Draco’s jacket and pressed it to her nose. It still smelled like him, musky and comforting. But the smell was fading after so many days apart. 

What was she doing? Cuddling Draco’s jacket like a comfort blankie? Draco, who had taken the Dark Mark, and who hated her two best friends, and who had called her the first slur she ever learned. _Mudblood._ Two syllables. After she learned it, it had seemed to thump in time with her heartbeat whenever she was alone. She had wanted to write home to her parents about it, but she didn’t want them to be upset. They struggled with that kind of stuff. Her dad once innocently asked, if both Harry’s parents were magical, why was he still called a halfblood? To them, _mudblood_ would sound like a funny word. So she never told them.

 _Whore._ That was a word her parents would understand. But there was no use in telling them about the nasty letter that now sat at the very bottom of her trunk; they would only feel more upset by their inability to protect her. 

She inhaled deeply from Draco’s jacket. His scent was nearly gone. He was so different, away from the pressures of his parents and expectations of blood and Slytherin. He was nice, even funny. And he was attractive—he had always been attractive. Maybe that was why she slept with him. She wasn’t sure.

Hermione got out her notebooks, and went to find Ginny.

Ginny sat at her desk in the seventh year girl’s dorm, applying lotion to the red scratches on her wrists. She stiffened when the door opened, and then relaxed upon seeing it was Hermione. 

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I got held up talking to Ron.”

“He’s being so weird about this,” Ginny mumbled. She rubbed her wrists to make the lotion sink in. 

“I think he’s being protective.” Hermione didn’t know why she was defending him. Maybe it was habit. She looked curiously at the scratches on Ginny’s wrists. “Can I ask about those?”

Ginny sighed. “I’ve been scratching myself in my sleep.”

“Why don’t you-”

“Go to Madam Pomfrey? The dermahealing potion fixes the scratches but it makes the itching worse.”

“It shouldn’t do that.”

“I know,” Ginny said, irritated. 

“Is it because of the heat?”

Ginny turned away and started packing a bookbag. “Do you want to study in the library, or the common room? Or we could find a classroom.”

“Ginny, what was the heat like?”

An odor of anxiety flooded the room. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ginny…”

“I need a few days!” Ginny shrieked. Hermione flinched. She had heard Ginny lose her temper before, but it had always been on the quidditch pitch, and never directed towards Hermione. “It- it fucking sucked, okay? I kept begging for them to bring someone in to help but they said I couldn’t consent under the heat’s influence. The St. Mungo’s healers were there the whole time, it’s not like I’m the only person you can ask. Right now I want to focus on catching up on class.”

“Okay,” Hermione said, because she couldn’t think of anything else. “I’m sorry.”

Ginny deflated. “No, I’m sorry. I… shouldn’t have yelled. It’s just—they said that if they had caught me before the heat really started, they might have been able to give me a potion so I could sleep through it. Why didn’t you tell anyone earlier?”

“Tell anyone about what?”

“This whole-” She waved her hand vaguely. “This whole alpha and omega thing. You’re the one who knew the most.”

Hermione balled her fists in her pockets, wishing she had a sensible answer. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. I wanted to protect Ron. I wanted to trust my peers. I was confused. 

“Nevermind,” Ginny said when Hermione hesitated. “It’s not surprising that you want to know about the heat. I’m sorry I got mad.” She still sounded bitter.

“You’re stressed,” Hermione said. “I get it. We’re studying for the NEWTs and you lost over a week of instruction and that’s a lot of pressure.”

“I don’t even want to think about it.” Ginny cracked a dim smile. “Merlin, I wish I weren’t taking so many NEWTs. Why did I decide I needed Muggle Studies?”

“At least you have an expert at hand,” Hermione joked. 

They went and studied in the library. Ginny chewed on the end of her quill as she struggled through the transfiguration truth tables, which were essential for the new joint potions-transfiguration alchemy unit. When she finished the set, she tossed down the quill. “My brain hurts. Distract me.”

Hermione searched for something appropriate. “Draco and Neville danced together at the Ravenclaw party.”

Ginny snorted. “No fucking way.”

“I have witnesses. Neville will deny it happened, but… it happened.”

“How did that whole thing go, by the way? Your ‘not a date’ with Draco?”

Hermione flushed. “It went well.”

“Hermione! Details!”

“We, uh…” Hermione loosely outlined the evening, up until she asked Draco to kiss her, and then she got very vague. 

“You banged,” Ginny jumped in eagerly.

“What? Why would you guess that?”

“Why aren’t you denying it?”

“Because- because- oh, Ginny, please don’t tell anyone else. I haven’t even had the chance to talk to Draco yet, I don’t want this running around the school.” _I’m already getting scary letters._

“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why you like Draco Malfoy, but I trust your judgement. Mostly. As long as you were both safe about it.”

“We were safe,” Hermione said immediately, and then felt a flicker of doubt. She thought she remembered him fiddling with his wand, but he had never _said_ he casted a contraception spell. Admittedly she didn’t know how they worked. During those months on the run, there had been moments when she wished she knew one, in case she found herself under duress and without a choice. But in the end she had never needed it, and then she had never bothered to learn one when she got back to Hogwarts. She couldn’t exactly go searching for a contraception spell right now, in front of Ginny, after confidently proclaiming she had been safe with Draco. 

After some teasing, Ginny moved on from the topic and started in on the next transfiguration problem set. Hermione stared down at her own herbology essay. She placed her hand on her lower abdomen and it seemed to quicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slur is “whore”.
> 
> Next up: “A Fucking Waste of Veritaserum”
> 
> Update on Wednesday Feb. 10th :)


	10. A Fucking Waste of Veritaserum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco goes to a hearing. Hermione tries out a pregnancy detection spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has discussion of unwanted pregnancy in Hermione’s sections. It also has an explicit description of Draco’s masturbatory fantasies. They are fairly objectifying to women. Stop reading at the first scene break and start at the paragraph beginning with “CRACK” if you’d like to skip them. Summary in the endnotes.

“You’re all done, Hermione,” Madam Pomfrey said, putting the vial of Hermione’s blood into a cupboard. The St. Mungo’s healer, a witch named Deborah, made notes on a clipboard. 

Hermione tugged her sleeve down. She had had blood drawn, and the healer from St. Mungo’s had palpated the glands on her wrists and neck, asking her questions about their sensitivity and whether they changed size over the course of the week. She hadn’t liked the woman touching her neck or wrists—she smelled too cloying and sickeningly sweet—but forced down her squirmy unease. The most important thing to do now was make it as easy as possible for the St. Mungo’s healers to solve the alpha and omega problem. She had already given Madeline Malfoy’s book on Magickal Maladies to McGonagall. The St. Mungo’s healer had asked her a barrage of questions about the symptoms of being an omega, and the date of her last menses.

Her last period had been twenty-nine days ago. 

“Um. Madam Pomfrey?” she asked, her voice high and shy. 

Madam Pomfrey looked up, her hat askew. “Yes, dear.”

“Could I talk to you alone?”

Madam Pomfrey closed the curtain between them and the St. Mungo’s healer, and cast a privacy charm around the little cell. “How can I help you?”

Her face was hot and she focused on the white curtain behind Madam Pomfrey’s knees. “Is there, a, um… How do I cast the pregnancy detection spell?” 

Madam Pomfrey hesitated. “I can write it down for you.” She ducked out of the curtain. 

Hermione stared down at her belly. She rubbed it. She felt numb. She felt nothing. She was convinced that the world had split in two directions that night she lost her virginity, and in another universe she had woken up with Draco by her side and Ginny recovering from a twenty-four hour fever, and somehow in that world everything was alright. 

_You wanted to, right?_ Yes, unequivocally yes. Hermione stared down at her belly, trying to summon some sort of emotion, any emotion at all. A baby—no, best not to think about babies. 

A shadow moved on the other side of the curtain and Hermione sniffed and wiped her nose and blinked several times, looking up at the ceiling. Madam Pomfrey came back in, handed Hermione a piece of paper, and placed a leather case on the hospital bed next to her. “The spell is very simple,” Madam Pomfrey said. “A bright light is positive. A dim light is negative. It works best in a dark room. This-” She patted the briefcase. “-is three months of contraceptive potion. I’m not sure how well it will work, given your status as an omega, but under normal circumstances you should take one vial a day, at the same time every day. You don’t have to use it,” she added kindly. “But why don’t you take it with you, so you’ll have it if you decide you want it?”

“Okay,” Hermione whispered, staring down at the piece of paper with the handwritten spell instructions. _Touch wand to abdomen over the womb. Say spell, hold wand in place for 10 seconds or until the tip glows. Bright white light means pregnant, dim light means not pregnant._

Madam Pomfrey sat down on the bed next to her. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said, her voice rising to a squeak. “It’s just—you know—we forgot to discuss some stuff beforehand. I, um-” She swallowed with some difficulty. 

“There are options,” Madam Pomfrey said gently. “For whatever decision you make.”

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed. “Yeah. I’ve got to go.” She crumpled the paper into her pocket and snatched up the case of birth control potion and threw aside the curtain, making the St. Mungo’s healer look up from her clipboard. 

“Hermione—please wait,” said Madam Pomfrey.

Bile rose in Hermione’s throat. “I should go.”

“Just one minute of your time?” 

Madam Pomfrey was still sitting, and there were deep bags under her eyes. Hermione glanced over at the St. Mungo’s healer, who was assiduously writing again, and stepped back behind the curtain. She stared at Madam Pomfrey’s sensible white shoes. 

“I’m sorry that this—all of this—is happening to you.”

Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes. “It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay. I’m sure it’s scary and stressful. When you first asked about alphas and omegas, I thought it was a purely academic interest. That was my mistake. After the war…” Madam Pomfrey trailed off, seeming to reconsider the course of her sentence. “We’re going to do everything in our power to solve this problem. You can always come to me if you need—anything.”

Suddenly Hermione wanted her mom. She had always been so good about being strong for her parents, being independent, not scaring them with magical things they wouldn’t and couldn’t understand. But right now she felt like a little girl who had fallen and scraped her knee and needed her mother to put a bandaid on it and kiss it better. 

“Is Minerva being very harsh about it?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“What?” Hermione took a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in her throat. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of Madam Pomfrey. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t her mother. “She’s got me grading papers for the rest of term.”

Madam Pomfrey gave a sad smile. “How like her. She’d never waste the chance to put a clever mind to work.”

“It’s not so bad-”

“I’m sure once she calms down, she’ll let you off. She’s very anxious, you know. About security in the castle. We all feel terrible for overlooking this.”

Hermione had no space in that numb cavity in her chest to feel sympathy for the professors. “I need to- I should- I should go.”

Madam Pomfrey didn’t stop her as she left.

She needed to talk to Draco. Where in the world was he hiding?

* * *

Draco was not clear how many days had passed. Maybe a week, maybe more. The professors had decided to keep him in confinement while the St. Mungo’s healers dealt with Ginny Weasley and consulted with McGonagall, so he found himself inundated with free time in which to think over the alpha and omega problem. And he did spend a fair bit of time thinking about the alpha and omega problem, albeit usually while masturbating. Sometimes the object of his fantasies was a nameless, faceless collection of sensations: a soft breast in his palm, a tight sheath around his erection, the smooth skin of a woman’s inner thigh, and the roaring satisfaction he felt when she submitted. Other times his mind wandered and he found himself thinking about his classmates: girls he had flirted with, or who despised him, or who had expressed crushes on him. His mother would hex his hands off if she knew how often he thought of his female classmates in compromising positions. He had imagined fucking half the school by now. Pansy, his first lay, often tumbled through his mind, her legs pale from lack of sun and soft from lack of exercise. He fantasized about the Patil twins (because if one pretty girl was good then two were better), and Hannah Abbott (she had really filled out), and Daphne Greengrass (because she had always looked down at him as if the Malfoy name wasn’t good enough for the Greengrasses). Thinking about Daphne inevitably led to imagining Astoria, malicious and seductive, chaining him to the bed with a flick of her wand and raking her glossy fingernails down his chest. Sometimes he even imagined Luna, perched on his lap while he held her waist and rocked them both, his nose tucked in her neck and her eccentric earrings swaying in time with his thrusts. 

He always felt weird when his mind strayed to Luna during masturbation sessions. She smelled quite good, and if he had never met Hermione, he would have thought he could smell Luna and die happy. She was pretty, too, and if he didn’t exactly like her personal style he could at least appreciate her surety in having one. And she had wanted to dance with him… But her dotty personality was not quite his thing. She seemed more like a friend than a lover, and there was also the matter of her imprisonment in his family home to grapple with. So he tried to keep Luna out of his fantasies.

His qualms over masturbating to fantasies of girls who had been imprisoned in his family home didn’t extend to Hermione, which he at least had the good sense to be embarrassed about when he didn’t have his hand on his cock. He imagined laying her back on his bed and putting his head between her legs and eating her out until she was mewling, then climbing up and easing inside her while she gasped and begged for more. Or she would wear a short little uniform skirt (nevermind that he had never seen her wear the uniform skirt and had no idea if she owned one) and innocently bend over to pick up a fallen quill, and it would be too much for him; he’d grab her by the neck and bend her over a conveniently present table, tossing her skirt up and pulling her panties to the side and sliding himself in, inch by inch, as she whimpered and squirmed attractively. But she always submitted, and enjoyed it. 

He didn’t remember that night in the empty classroom very well. They had been talking and joking around, and then things had happened so fast, and he hadn’t exactly been sober. He thought he had cast a contraception spell but maybe he had messed it up. Magic was harder when he was drunk. 

He didn’t like thinking about it. He had no way to contact Hermione unless he asked Slughorn to relay a message. Hi Professor Slughorn, could you please tell Hermione that I think I cast a contraception spell when we had sex but she should get tested to make sure? Absolutely not. She would probably go do it on her own, anyway. She was thorough like that. It stabbed somewhere inside his chest that he couldn’t be with her for the aftermath of their coupling, so he focused on what he could control: his fantasies. In his fantasies she started as a maiden in white—a sheltered Victorian virgin with no concept of sex, men, or pleasure—and she ended debauched and desperate for more. He knew what her desperation felt like. He’d kiss her violently under the streetlamps and then rip himself away, and she’d beg, _please don’t go,_ and he-

CRACK. A floppy-eared house elf wearing an immaculately starched tea towel appeared in the center of the room. Draco threw a blanket over his erection. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Draco Malfoy,” said the house elf, staring stoically ahead as Draco fumbled with his pants under the blanket. “Swirly is hoping he is not interrupting anything.”

“It’s too late now,” Draco gasped, stuffing his quickly softening erection away. “Who are you? Why- why’re you here?”

“Swirly works in the laundry. The healers and professors are asking to speak with you. Swirly is supposed to be apparating you to meet them.”

“Right now?” 

“Perhaps Mr. Draco Malfoy could be washing his hands first.”

Draco scowled, more at the ache in his balls than at the floppy-eared house elf. He washed his hands, grabbed his wand, and took Swirly’s proffered hand. 

CRACK.

Instead of the familiar sucking feeling of apparition, Draco felt like he was being flattened and run through a roller. Hard ground materialized under his feet and he immediately sensed he had an audience. He choked down his cough and straightened up, running a hand through his hair. 

His eyes contracted painfully. He had been taken to an old-fashioned anatomical theatre, the type with steep narrow tiers that circled all the way around the room and seemed about to pitch their occupants into the next row down. There was a gap in the rows for a door on the lowest level. The aisles were exceedingly narrow, and the only light in the room shone down on the place where the dissection table should have been—where Draco and Swirly stood. Five shadowy figures stood in the second row back, just beyond the circle of light.

Swirly disapparated. Draco eyed the shadowy figures. There appeared to be no end to the tiers. The top of the room faded into steep shadows, like he had been placed at the bottom of a deep pit. 

There were no rooms like this at Hogwarts. 

Was no one going to speak? Draco cleared his throat. “Excuse me—where am I?”

He squinted at the figures. One of them was definitely Slughorn. Why did none of them speak?

“Septima’s not here yet,” whispered one of the figures. “Should we start?”

“Where am I?” Draco repeated louder, his hand tightening around his wand. “Why am I here?”

His eyes began to adjust. Slughorn and McGonagall stood in the second row on one side of the lecture hall, Slughorn holding onto the row behind him so he didn’t tip out of his tier. On the other side stood a witch in a uniform with _St. Mungo’s_ embroidered on the breast, a witch in sleek black auror’s robes, and Madam Pomfrey.

“Draco,” boomed Slughorn, leaning forward so the bright light fell on his face. “How have you been? Enjoying your little vacation? Keeping up with your studies?”

“My vacations usually involve sunny, warm locales,” Draco said. “I haven’t seen the sun in at least a week.”

“Ha! Funny boy.” Slughorn turned to address the St. Mungo’s witch and the auror. “He’s got a right good sense of humor about all this, truly commendable in such a situation. I’m sure you’ve been making the best of it. At least one can easily learn Ancient Runes from a book! How are you enjoying that class, by the way?”

“Professor Babbling is excellent,” Draco said stiffly. 

“Yes,” McGonagall grumbled. “I’m sure Septima would agree—if she were here.”

Septima Vector—his arithmancy professor. Why did she need to be here? Perhaps Slughorn had won his argument with McGonagall, and Professor Vector was now being trained to take over as Slytherin Head of House.

The door on the floor banged open. Everyone turned, and a witch in red robes and a pointed red hat that looked unfortunately like a dunce cap emerged from the door’s shadowy depths. She took her place next to McGonagall.

“Apologies,” she said. 

“You’re late,” McGonagall snapped.

“Bertie needed something from me.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“I don’t see why we needed to do this at St. Mungo’s. We could’ve used an empty classroom at Hogwarts.”

Slughorn reached across McGonagall and patted Professor Vector on the arm. “You’re here now.” McGonagall gave Slughorn’s offending reach a look of extreme distaste. 

“Let’s get started,” said the auror. “This hearing will be recorded by enchanted quill.” She set a quill and a piece of floating parchment out in front of her, the way Draco had seen Rita Skeeter do. “I’m Auror Sara Nayak, here with St. Mungo’s Healer Deborah George. Also present are Healer Poppy Pomfrey, Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, and Professors Horace Slughorn and Septima Vector. Please state your name for the record.”

“What have I done?” Draco asked.

“Your name, please.”

Draco cleared his throat. “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Mr. Malfoy, you are in the anatomical theatre of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. You have been brought here to assess whether you have violated the terms of your probation, in light of your newfound status as an ‘alpha’. Do you testify that you are of sound mind, and that you will speak the truth during this hearing?”

This had all been orchestrated to catch him off-guard and deprive him of proper counsel. Draco felt that old urge to invoke the name of his father.

“Do you need me to repeat the question?” the auror asked. 

“I testify,” Draco said. 

The scratching of the quill filled the room. 

“Do you understand that if you are found to have lied during this hearing, it will constitute a violation of your probation and you will be sent to Azkaban for the remainder of the period?”

“I understand.”

“How long have you known of the existence of alphas and omegas?”

Draco searched the enshadowed faces of his audience. His legs felt weak. He had hated the iron chair at the Wizengamot trial, but now he wished he could sit down. “I’ve known of alphas and omegas for as long as I could remember.”

“Have you always known what they were?”

“...No.”

“When did you find out what it meant to be an alpha or an omega?”

“I’m not sure.” He thought back to that baudy conversation among the Death Eaters in his family’s reception room. “By my fifth year I knew that it had something to do with… intimacy. Afterwards I looked it up in a book.”

“Which book?”

“Magickal Maladies Common to Those Pure of Blood, by Madeline Malfoy. It was in my family library.”

“The same book Miss Granger handed over to us,” McGonagall added quietly. “She had mentioned she was borrowing it from Mr. Malfoy.”

“Were any alphas or omegas known among the Death Eaters and your family friends?”

“No,” Draco said. 

“This isn’t relevant,” cut in Professor Vector. “We’re here to find out whether Mr. Malfoy violated the terms of his probation, not to plumb his brain for Death Eater information. I’d like to stay on topic and finish this hearing as quickly as possible.”

“Got somewhere you’d rather be?” McGonagall muttered.

Draco glanced between Vector and McGonagall, wondering what their history was. 

A wrinkle appeared in Vector’s brow. “As I understand it, Mr. Malfoy’s probation rules that he cannot use offensive spells, cannot take wand magic classes, cannot fly or leave the Hogwarts grounds without permission, cannot have contact with either of his parents or any former Death Eaters, and cannot ‘incite mayhem or spread untruths.’ And he must take Muggle Studies. Unless I’m terribly mistaken, he has not violated any of these terms.”

“Septima is quite right,” Slughorn said. “Draco’s failure to alert his professors is a simple lapse in judgement, not an untruth.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” said the auror, ignoring the crosstalk, “were you aware that alphas have the power to control omegas using their voice alone?”

Draco’s stomach sank. So this was how they were going to try and get him. “I never used that power. Ask Hermione Granger or Luna Lovegood. I would never do that.”

“Using compulsion is as serious an offense as the imperius charm.”

“I never _did_ anything-”

“Which you cannot prove.”

“What do you want me to do?” Draco’s voice cracked. Down by his side, his hands shook. “Do you want me to take veritaserum? I’ll do it-”

“Absolutely not,” McGonagall barked. “He’s already sworn to tell the truth. There is no need for veritaserum.”

 _“Does he have a history of panicking under pressure?”_ Vector stage-whispered to Slughorn. 

Slughorn shook his head. _“He was cool as ice at his Wizengamot trial.”_

This whole hearing had been designed expressly to catch him off guard. Don’t forget to pack those emotions away. _Mother in the garden. Astraea sleeping in the owlery._ The anger and fear folded into tiny specks, little manageable slivers of emotion.

“I’ll take the veritaserum,” he repeated, his voice strong and steady. “I’m a full adult. I can consent to veritaserum without a legal guardian’s permission.”

Slughorn leaned over the seats to address the auror. “How long will it take to get the veritaserum? Could we do this today?”

“I’ll have an assistant auror go fetch some,” said Auror Nayak. She waved her wand and a slip of paper, like the kind that comes in fortune cookies, burst from its tip. She wrote a note on the paper, and then it smoldered and dissolved into ash. “If it’s found that you are lying, that is grounds for immediate expulsion. You will be sent to Azkaban.”

There was quiet in the room. _Mother in the garden. Astraea in the owlery. Hermione pressed against his chest, asking to kiss him. Hermione wanting him. Hermione._

“What exactly are you going to ask him?” McGonagall said.

The door on the lecture floor banged open. “Sara, I’ve got the veritaserum,” called out a horribly familiar voice.

Potter. 

* * *

Hermione went to a windowless bathroom in the dungeons. The spell was too personal to try in Gryffindor tower. At least in this dingy little bathroom where the walls dripped with condensation and the toilet seats were cracked and crooked, she could leave behind whatever happened here and never return. 

She locked the door and reread the instructions. Dim light means not pregnant. Not pregnant. Not pregnant, please let it be not pregnant. 

Pregnant was too much word. It was a word for happy settled people who were ready and planning for children. Hermione needed some other word. She had so many plans for her future before children. 

Hold wand in place for 10 seconds. Or until the tip glows. Hermione looked around the bathroom, memorizing the positions of the sinks and the stalls as if this might keep them from creeping around when she turned off the light. She unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans and jabbed the tip of her wand right above her bladder. Then she closed her eyes, groped for the light switch, and said the spell as the room went dark.

She counted to ten. Then, for good measure, she counted to ten again, and then she counted to ten a third time because she could see a faint light through her eyelids and she was too scared to open her eyes. When Hermione did open her eyes it was too late; the room was dark and she would need to recast. She stifled a hysterical laugh, wiping her nose and staring at the nothingness. This time she was determined to keep her eyes open. She said the spell.

One. Two. Three… 

Ten seconds. Or until the tip glows.

Sixteen seconds.

A dim glow. Barely enough to see her own hand. 

But would it grow to a bright glow?

Twenty-one seconds. Twenty-eight seconds. 

The dim glow faded and the room was dark once more. Hermione slapped the light switch back on, sinking to a squat and burying her face in her hands. Not pregnant. Thank Merlin. Thank God. 

She cast the spell six more times to make sure.

* * *

Potter was an alpha. Draco knew it as surely as he knew his own face in the mirror. He growled, and Potter stopped dead, still swathed in shadows. 

“Harry,” Slughorn exclaimed. “Who would’ve thought we’d meet here? Do you have a moment to stay after the hearing? I’d like to talk to you-”

“Not now, Horace,” said McGonagall. “Harry, nice to see you.”

“Hi, Professor Slughorn. Hi Professor McGonagall. I’m only here to deliver the veritaserum.” 

“Why don’t you stay?” Slughorn continued. “We can catch up if there’s time afterwards.”

“I’m on the clock right now, but maybe later-”

Auror Nayak rubbed her forehead, muttering to the St. Mungo’s healer, “And there’s a history between Harry and Draco Malfoy as well. Why didn’t I think about who was on duty before I called for an assistant auror? Why does everything to do with Draco Malfoy go belly up?” Louder, she said, “Harry, come on.”

Potter still hovered at the edge of the shadows, as if he had hit an invisible barrier. Draco squinted at the darkness, trying to make out Potter’s expression. 

Auror Nayak waved her hand impatiently. “C’mon, Harry. I’ll administer.”

“It’s alright.” Potter’s voice deepened. “I need practice administering veritaserum. I’ll do it.” He stepped into the light, and finally Draco could see him clearly.

His hair was shorter and neater than it had ever been at Hogwarts. The ministry had shelled out to send him to a proper barber. It had the effect of making his scar look enormous. He held a tiny bottle of clear liquid in his hand and a small spoon. “How many drops?”

“Two drops,” Auror Nayak said. 

Potter stepped closer, holding a spoon in one hand and twisting the cap to the tiny bottle open with the other.

“Just an old schoolboy rivalry, perfectly harmless, I’m sure they’re past it…” Slughorn was murmuring to Vector.

“Nice haircut,” Draco said, quiet enough that the adults in the audience wouldn’t hear him.

Potter eyed him disdainfully. 

That wasn’t going to fly. In no world should Potter get to be the high and mighty while administering Draco a truth serum because he was being accused of using compulsion to control girls. If this was how things were going to play out, then Draco was at least going to drag Potter down to his level.

 _“Hermione misses you,”_ he hissed.

Potter froze in the middle of decanting the veritaserum. _“Hermione?”_ he whispered.

_“You should write to her.”_

“Harry,” Auror Nayak called sharply. “You’re only here to administer. I can have Healer George do it if you’re not able.”

“I’m able,” Potter said, and shifted so Auror Nayak couldn’t see his face. He carefully tapped a drop of veritaserum into the spoon. _“Why were you talking to Hermione?”_

Another drop fell into the spoon. _“Wouldn’t you like to know.”_

 _“Why were you talking to Hermione?”_ Potter asked again, more urgent. 

Draco grinned. This was really too easy. _“She was practically crying on my shoulder.”_

Potter upended the bottle and gave it a shake. A large glob of veritaserum fell onto the spoon. 

“Harry!” McGonagall shouted, pushing past Vector towards the aisle.

“Open up,” Potter said, grabbed Draco’s jaw, and shoved the spoon in Draco’s mouth, nearly choking him. “Why were you talking to Hermione?” 

A gray blanket fell over Draco’s mind. He had been questioned under veritaserum several times before his Wizengamot trial, but he had never taken so much at one time. 

“Harry, stop!” Auror Nayak was saying. She had come down on the floor and yanked Potter away. “What are you doing?”

The words marched out of Draco’s mouth as if his voice was separate from his mind. “I’ve talked to Hermione for lots of reasons recently. We were trying to figure out the alpha and omega problem-”

“Draco, you don’t have to answer,” McGonagall said. She had come down to the floor as well. 

But Draco couldn’t stop. This was one of the effects of a high veritaserum dosage. “-and we went to a party together. I was talking to her because she’s smart, and sweet, and pretty, and every time I see her I feel-"

Potter’s fist met Draco’s jaw. 

“HARRY!” yelled several people at once, and then Auror Nayak and Slughorn were wrestling with Potter while he shouted obscenities and McGonagall loomed over Draco and said,

“When is your birthday?”

“June 5th, 1980.” Somewhere in the back of his mind he was thankful McGonagall had thought to ask an intervening question so he could stop rambling about Hermione.

“Stop fighting or I’ll have to stupefy you!” Auror Nayak was saying, and they dragged Potter through the door into the darkness, and the door slammed shut. The room fell silent except for the heavy breathing of McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, who had also leaped onto the floor. Slughorn, Auror Nayak, and the St. Mungo’s healer had left the room. 

“What just happened?” asked Vector, the only person who had not left her row.

“Potter’s an alpha and I provoked him on purpose,” Draco said immediately, staggering to his feet.

“No questions,” McGonagall barked. “We need an auror present if we’re going to ask him questions.”

“Did you see how much he was given?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“Two drops, then at least half the bottle,” said McGonagall.

“That’s enough to give him veritaserum poisoning,” Madam Pomfrey said anxiously, and sure enough, Draco began to retch. “He needs to keep talking, auror or not. Draco, what is your mother’s name?”

“Narcissa Malfoy, née Black.”

“And your father’s?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

“And the names of your former roommates?”

With a twisting in his chest, Draco listed them, and then he told Madam Pomfrey the classes he was taking, and inadvertently admitted he had asked to take Ancient Runes in order to study with Hermione. Then Slughorn, Auror Nayak, and the St. Mungo’s healer came hurrying down the aisle, disheveled and breathing hard. 

“Let’s make this quick, I have an assistant auror to discipline,” Auror Nayak said, taking her place. “Is he still under the effects of veritaserum?”

“He’ll be feeling it for hours,” Madam Pomfrey said. 

“A fucking waste of veritaserum,” muttered the St. Mungo’s witch.

“Is your name Draco Lucius Malfoy?” Auror Nayak asked loudly.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever knowingly used your alpha compulsion?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell a professor when you found out there were alphas and omegas in Hogwarts?”

The harder questions took longer to process. “Hermione didn’t seem to want to tell the professors, and I wanted to do what Hermione wanted. I thought as long as we were researching the problem, we could spend time together. I wanted a reason to spend time with her.”

“So it comes down to a schoolboy crush. He hasn’t violated his probation, and we can go,” Vector announced.

“Have you had any contact with former or current Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathizers since your Wizengamot trial?” asked the auror.

“Objection,” McGonagall snapped.

“I haven’t,” said Draco. 

“Nayak, I refuse to let you question my student any more,” McGonagall said. “Swirly! Come bring Mr. Malfoy back to Hogwarts.”

Swirly appeared with a CRACK. He took Draco’s hand.

Auror Nayak leaned into the light now, continuing, “Have you attempted to contact-”

Swirly disapparated, and Draco found himself back in his room, daylight shining through the lake and projecting glowing undulations on his floor. He sank onto his bed, retching.

“Is Mr. Draco Malfoy needing anything else?” Swirly asked in a disinterested voice, as though he was really looking forward to starching some linens. Draco’s veritaserum-addled mind struggled with Swirly’s words. It had sounded like a question, but it wasn’t a truth-question. _Do I need anything else?_

Hermione. Things would be alright if Hermione could hold him. “Can you take me to Hermione Granger?”

“Swirly is not allowed to do that.”

“Can you…” Draco doubled over, swallowing hard, trying to keep his stomach lining inside his stomach. “Can you deliver her a letter?”

Swirly’s ears twitched. “Swirly is supposing that is allowed.”

“Right.” Draco stumbled to his desk. There were so many words inside him, but without a proper question they had no way easy out. He grabbed his wastebin and vomited all the words up. He spat several times, wiping his mouth. Swirly waited, impassive. 

Draco dipped a quill in his inkpot and set out a sheet of parchment.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I had a run in with Potter at St. Mungo’s today..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of Draco’s masturbatory fantasies: Draco loses count of the days that he has been confined in his room. He passes the time by tastelessly masturbating to fantasies of his female classmates, including Astoria and Luna, but especially Hermione. In the middle of these fantasies, he notes that he’s not sure whether he successfully cast a contraception spell when he and Hermione had sex.
> 
> I know that the Hermione sections were kinda heavy, but I think Harry losing his shit and punching Draco may actually be the funniest thing I’ve ever written. I’m taking a break from this story for now, but I’m optimistic that I’ll come back when my life calms down. I encourage you to subscribe if you’d like to be notified for the eventual maybe update! In the meantime, stay safe, have safe sex, etc. <3 Thank you for reading, commenting, and/or engaging in any way. I’ve really appreciated the support.


	11. Touch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione finally have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings

With a dollop of trepidation, Draco slid into the potions classroom and carefully shut the door behind him. The other eighth years were gathering their ingredients for the potion of the day. Draco scanned the room for Hermione, but as Slughorn had said, she had been moved to a different class. The room seemed slightly hollow. After a few mental tallies he figured it out. Hannah Abbott and Padma Patil were missing as well.

He began setting up his cauldron in the corner where he could have his back to the wall and his eye on the entire room when Anthony sauntered over.

“Hey asshole. It’s a cooperative potion. Let’s be partners.”

“Did Finch-Fletchey die?”

Anthony started setting up his cauldron and didn’t answer. Finch-Fletchey was on the other side of the room, partnered with Seamus Finnegan. 

They took a look at the assigned potion:  _ Transmuting glass into sugar candy. _

“He isn’t going to make us eat our final product, y’think?” said Anthony. “Snape would’ve.”

Draco fondly remembered Snape’s unit on poisons and antidotes in which they had to test their antidotes on themselves. True, he had been convinced he was going to die at the time, but in hindsight he doubted Snape would have really let a student die of poison. 

“Where have you been?” Anthony asked conversationally as they started prepping their ingredients and heating their cauldron. 

“In my room.”

“All this time?”

“What’s that mean?” Draco asked. 

“The rest of us were let out the next day. There are rumors that you were expelled.”

“Clearly I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

They fell into silence and Draco focused on cutting his puppyweed into neat parallelograms. Slughorn passed by their cauldron and gave an ambiguous  _ hmm. _

“I saw you dancing with Neville at the party last week,” Anthony said when Slughorn had gone.

“We don’t need to talk.”

“You also danced with Hermione. Is there something there, or…”

Draco knife went crooked on one of his parallelograms. Now it was wasted; they needed a specific number to make the potion work and they didn’t have abundant materials to work with. 

“Sorry,” Anthony said. “She’s your territory. Won’t bring it up again.”

“What?” Draco asked, tensing.

Anthony was grinding a fine powder to form the base of the potion. He lifted his head and seemed to sniff the air. “Er… you guys are a thing, right?”

“No,” Draco said through his teeth. “Why would you say that?”

Anthony gave him a side eye. “We’re not supposed to talk to the girls, anyway. Hermione’s been hanging out with Neville, and I saw her getting dinner with Ron, but I guess they think girls are more trustworthy. That’s a bloody double standard.”

“Maybe it’s the Gryffindors they think are more trustworthy.”

Anthony snorted. “We  _ all _ fought You-Know-Who. Well, you didn’t, but then that’s why they kept you in lockdown for a week longer than the rest of us.”

It occurred to Draco that Anthony was using this cooperative potion as an excuse to be spiteful. And here he had been, like a fool, thinking that they were starting to be friends. 

“What’s up between you and Finch-Fletchey?” Draco asked, just to be nasty. 

“Nothing.”

“I thought you two were potions partners. Why’s he partnered with Finnegan? Finch-Fletchey and Finnegan. Try saying that five times fast.”

Anthony measured out a scoop of the powder and tossed it in the cauldron. Pink sparks began to fly as the powder heated. Finally he said, “Lotta people are being weird about this alpha and omega thing.”

“Weird how?” Draco’s mind flashed to Hermione and felt the odd urge to growl. If anyone was bothering her, he’d kill them. 

“Dunno,” Anthony said, his posture cagey. “Just  _ weird, _ y’know?”

* * *

In retrospect, Draco should have expected to find Hermione in the quidditch stands. Not because she enjoyed quidditch, but because her friend was the captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team and they were finally holding tryouts. A sizeable crowd of students from different years and houses had gathered to watch the long-delayed tryouts, and the draw was undoubtedly more to do with curiosity about the omega captain and her alpha brother than any particular fascination with quidditch. Draco took a seat near the top of the stands. Hermione was sitting near the middle. 

Draco thought about climbing down through the stands to go talk to her directly when Longbottom settled beside her. Longbottom handed her a mug of something steaming, which she sipped from, and then handed back. He sipped from the mug as well. They sat with their shoulders almost touching.

Fury boiled so hot in Draco’s chest that he felt lightheaded.  _ Hermione was his. _ Forget the wand, he was going to go down there and rip Longbottom’s throat out with his own teeth and then fuck his girl under Longbottom’s arterial spray so everyone knew who she belonged to. 

A group of girls in blue Ravenclaw scarves passed by him, stepping into his line of sight and momentarily snapping him out of his image. “Creep,” one muttered as they passed. 

Draco whirled around. “Excuse me?”

They eeped and scurried further up the stands.

Self-consciousness flickered through Draco. Perhaps this had not been the best idea. The optics of attending a quidditch tryout when he didn’t know anyone on the team suggested some unflattering things about him.

Down on the pitch, the Weasley girl had gotten into a shouting match with her brother.  _ “If you keep interfering with how I run tryouts, I’ll hex you with hemorrhoids, and then we’ll see how much you like being an asshole!” _

It would be better to leave, as much as it hurt to see Hermione so close. He could send her a letter asking to meet. One more day wouldn’t make a difference, except now that he saw her he felt like their hearts had been sewn together and a single step in the wrong direction would tear him apart. He realized he had stood and stepped into the aisle, and was rocking on his heels. A gaggle of young Gryffindors were staring at him and clutching their wands. 

Draco gave them a cool nod, fingering his wand inside his pocket. He needed to leave. 

But then Hermione turned and looked behind her—someone was pointing to him. She mouthed  _ Draco? _ and he was drawn towards her, his feet tripping through the stands. 

She started to climb the stands towards him. Longbottom grabbed for her arm, missed, and followed, his wand out and pointed towards Draco. Draco focused his ire on this rival who was trying to touch his girl. He began preparing a spell that would knock Longbottom on his back and turn his ears into maggots, but then Hermione was standing there before him, peering up into his eyes, and the entire world stopped. 

Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her lips were red. They looked slightly chapped. Her eyes were bright and watery. He searched her up and down, his hands hovering by her shoulders. It was hard to tell through her jacket, but she seemed alright. There was no real reason she wouldn’t be, except there were _so_ _fucking many_ alphas skulking around her, dirty lecherous rivals who were going to try to hurt her and leave her.

She’s my girl. My omega. My heart—mine. 

The world hadn’t stopped only in Draco’s head. Everything had stopped on the quidditch pitch as well. Ginny Weasley had paused shouting at her brother to watch what was going on in the stands. 

Draco reached out to touch her face and she knocked his hand away.

“Hermione?” Draco croaked. Was she… angry?

“You shouldn’t be here,” Longbottom said, putting his hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and if he had done this a second earlier Draco probably would have lunged at him, but now he was just confused. 

Hermione shrugged Longbottom’s hand away. “We’d better go.” Draco hovered uncertainly as she started back down the stands and Longbottom followed, and when they reached the bottom, Hermione turned back. “Well?”

Draco nearly tripped over himself to catch up. 

The Weasleys flew over to the stands, and now everyone really went silent, watching the meeting of the alphas and the omegas with voyeuristic excitement, already planning how to recount the tale to the unfortunate souls who missed it. 

“What’s he doing here?” Ron Weasley hissed, his wand in hand, hovering on his broom a head higher than the rest of them.

“I’m handling this,” Hermione said. “Go back to tryouts.”

“I’m not letting that  _ Death Eater- _ ” Ron finished his sentence with a growl, apparently too angry to speak, and lunged at Draco, grabbing him by the collar and forcing Longbottom to leap out of the way. His nostrils flared. “It’s you,” he snarled. “You’re the asshole who-” Draco stumbled backwards, and a voice in the back of his mind that sounded like his mother warned,  _ don’t fight, it’s against your probation, _ but another voice that sounded like his father sneered,  _ no son of mine would take a hit without hitting back, _ and as Draco raised his fist to swing, Hermione caught his arm, trying to pull him back with her wand pointed at Ron. Draco could have shaken her off—she was too small to physically hold him back—but his mind went still with calming omega pheromones. 

“Ron,” she said sharply. “I’m handling this.”

Ron let Draco go and his broom bounced a foot in the air. He looked to his sister, and then to Longbottom. “You’re going to let this- this  _ scum _ put his hands on Hermione?”

“I think Hermione is the one putting her hands on the scum,” Ginny said coldly. 

“Gin…”

“Go back to the pitch or your tryout ends now.”

“That’s not fair-”

“Who’s the bloody captain here, Ron?”

“It should have been me! Everyone knows it should have been me!”

Hermione took this opportunity to hustle Draco out of the stands. Longbottom followed, glancing over his shoulder at the Weasley siblings, who were in another full blown argument. The three of them headed towards a copse of trees next to the former hippogriff pasture, where they would be hidden from the stadium. 

The odd trio sputtered to a halt. Longbottom angled away, as if he wasn’t sure what his role was in the group. 

Hermione crossed her arms and took a half-step away from Draco, staring at some point above his shoulder. “You saw Harry.”

Longbottom looked up curiously. 

“You got my letter,” Draco said.

“This… changes things. I don’t know why I thought all of the alphas and omegas would be at Hogwarts. Now… who knows how many are out there.”

“Harry’s an alpha?” Longbottom murmured. 

Why are you here, Draco wanted to ask. He swallowed down his sneer; he knew Hermione was fond of Longbottom. 

“How did he look?” Hermione asked. “Did he look healthy? You said he-” Her voice caught in her throat. “-he misses me?”

Draco curled his lip; the excited sheen in Hermione’s eyes when Harry’s name came up was giving him that irrational, lightheaded feeling again. “If punching me in the face when I said your name means he misses you, then yes, I think he misses you. His fist was healthy enough.”

“How did he look?” she probed.

Magic sparked at Draco’s fingertips and he clenched his hands to hide them. “He got a haircut,” he ground out.

“What else did you talk about? Did he say why-”

“We didn’t talk,” Draco said, his voice getting darker and more annoyed. “He punched me in the face. We saw each other for less than a minute. I told you everything in the letter.”

“Hey,” Longbottom snapped. “Don’t do that.”

Draco’s ire snapped to Longbottom, and then he looked back to Hermione, and saw that she was curling in on herself, her eyes lowered and head tilted to expose the side of her neck. Shame flooded through him. “Granger, stop it,” he said, consciously using his normal voice. “Be yourself.”

She blinked rapidly. “What was I doing?” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oh no.”

“Maybe you’d better go,” Longbottom said, stepping in between Draco and Hermione. Draco’s wand shot out at waist level, angled up at Longbottom’s neck. “Woah, hey. Careful there.”

“Actually Neville,” Hermione muttered, staring at the hard, cracked ground, “you should go.”

“Go?” Longbottom repeated faintly. “Don’t you need me?”

She gave him an incredulous look, and Draco didn’t need to smell it to know she was annoyed. “I want to talk to Draco alone.”

“I’ll be on the other side of the trees,” Longbottom suggested.

“No. Go back to the castle. Please!”

Longbottom acquiesced, but paused as he passed Draco to murmur, “I’ll kill you if you hurt my friend.”

Draco rolled his eyes. A bloke pulls one sword out of a hat and suddenly thinks he’s a big man. When Longbottom was sufficiently far away, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Everyone else I know seems to have done it at least once. I’m not surprised you finally did too.” She sounded bitter.

“I’m still sorry. I won’t do it again. We can talk about Potter if you want.” Draco took a step forward, closing some of that chasm between them. “How have you been?”

He was expecting her annoyance to soften to sweetness, but if anything, it got sharper. “ _ Where _ have you been?”

“The professors wanted to keep me in my room until they could arrange a hearing with an auror.”

“Of course,” she muttered. Draco reached out to touch her face again, and she stepped away, carefully adjusting the chasm. “Can you stop trying to touch me?”

“What?” Draco laughed awkwardly. “Do you not remember-”

“I remember! That doesn’t mean you have permission to touch me whenever you want.” Something shriveled inside Draco. “I think we moved too fast.”

There was a constriction in Draco’s throat. Should he apologize? Was she going to report him to the professors? There was no doubt that if she reported him, he would be expelled and sent to Azkaban. The breeze chilled him through his sweater. 

“Did you-” She turned her head so her hair blew away from her face. “Did you use a contraceptive charm?”

Draco felt his face go cold. No—there was no way. Not for their first time, not when he only remembered it in flashes. An image flashed unbidden through his mind: Hermione cradling a round belly, heavy his child. It was pleasing in a virile, animalistic way. But it also came with his father’s imperious voice as they walked past the red light district in Knockturn Alley.  _ I don’t care if you fuck a muggle or a mudblood. I’ll disinherit you if you put a bastard in one.  _ Draco had been mortified. His mother had been there with them. He had given her the slightest sideways glance, but her mask was up and her face drawn in stone. 

“You- you’re not-”

“I’m not pregnant,” she said, still not looking at him.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, slightly nauseous. Thank Merlin. “I thought I used a contraceptive charm.”

“Okay,” she said in a small, empty voice. “I just wasn’t sure.”

So that was it. They had gotten drunk and stumbled over an increasingly smudgy line, and now they were going to go back and redraw the line and stand on their opposite sides and pretend the boundary had never been crossed. Golden girl versus Death Eater. Once again, Draco would be utterly alone. 

She turned, sniffing the wind. “I thought you’d be happy—no consequences to your little indiscretion.”

Draco stared. 

“Well?” Her voice cracked. “Aren’t you? You were right all along—the alpha and omega thing is-” She cast about for words, wetting her lips. Draco watched her tongue dart out. “It’s clouding our minds. It made us make mistakes.”

An ache of loneliness nearly bowled him over. She was throwing his words back in his face. They were the same phrases he had used to try and push her away in order to keep himself safe from his desire to have her. 

“Merlin, Draco, say something.” 

He wanted to speak but he was suddenly afraid that he might accidentally use compulsion again. 

Windy tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. She shook her head to get her hair out of her face, and from miles away inside his head Draco wanted to see if it was as soft and springy as he remembered from the night of the party. She flinched away. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

His hand had moved of its own volition. He clenched it back down by his side. 

“Do you think we made a mistake?” he rasped, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t know.” She sounded terribly vulnerable. 

“Did I- did I hurt you?”

“No. It was good. I enjoyed it.”

“You sound like you’re being sarcastic.”

“I’m not. From what I remember, it was nice.”

“Then what-”

“I’ve been so mad at you,” she said, getting quiet. “I feel like I shouldn’t be. From what Neville tells me, you didn’t have a choice in going to the hospital wing when Ginny’s heat started, and you didn’t have a choice when the professors made you stay in your dorm. But I’m mad at you anyway, and it makes me madder that I’m not supposed to be.”

“I wasn’t there for you afterwards,” Draco said softly. “I should have been.”

Hermione sighed. “Like we’ve both said, the alpha and omega thing is clouding our minds. We had a one night stand. It doesn’t have to be some big thing.”

“I want it to be,” Draco said without thinking.

Her eyes snapped to his, searching his gaze for any hint of insincerity. “We barely know each other.”

“Then we’ll get to know each other.”

“My friends will hate it.”

“I’ll make friends with your friends.”

She scoffed. “I don’t know how you’re going to do that.”

“I will,” Draco said, even as he knew he was basically promising the impossible. 

“It won’t work.” The wind rustled the golden leaves on the trees above them. “There’s too much history. You and Ron—you and Harry. You and me.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you feel like you should say it?”

She uncrossed her arms and raised her fists, and for an absurd second he thought she was going to try and hit him, but then she brought her hands to her mouth and blew on them, and he realized she was cold. She could have used a warming charm but there was something sweet about her decision not to. Very muggleborn. He held out his palms. She blinked, and then put her hands in his. He folded them together—her hands were small and soft and he had a chilling thought that it would be all too easy to press too hard and hurt her—and rubbed, massaging warmth into her fingers. 

“You were a Death Eater,” she said finally, watching him rub her hands. “I don’t know how I can get past that.”

“I never wanted to be. I’ll remove the mark.”

She regarded him with suspicion. “Can that be done?”

Draco held onto her hands tighter, afraid she was about to try and pull away and leave his life forever. “I don’t know.” Suddenly he realized that he was doing exactly what Weasley had done: he was denying her all her options. He let go and took a step back. “You don’t have to say anything right now. Or you can tell me to fuck right off, and I will.”

She thought for a moment, still studying his face. “I have a question.”

Draco’s heart thumped dreadfully. She was going to ask to see his Dark Mark. He would have to remove the glamour he used to hide it, and he would have to see the part of himself that gave him so much shame. 

“Have you always been like this?” she asked. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, after a pause. 

But he thought he knew what she was asking. She wanted to know if the vindictive, power-drunk boy who threw around insults like confetti, and who had gone to obsessive lengths to wound her best friends, was still lurking about at the core of him, like a viper waiting to sink its fangs in the moment she turned her back. He didn’t know what answer to give her. He sensed that he couldn’t say no, he was a changed man and none of that cruelty remained, because she would distrust and disbelieve him—with good reason—even though it was the answer she was fishing for. But he couldn’t say yes, he’d been like this all along, because then she would be endlessly on guard, expecting him to pull out his hateful old tactics every time they had a minor disagreement. 

He also knew that if she was asking at all, then she was wavering too, looking for an excuse to give in. 

“I don’t want to lie to you,” he said, waiting for her face to fall. She stared obstinately up at him. “I’m not the same person you grew up with, but—I’m still me.”

A hint of a smile played at her lips. “I figured you were still you when you said you tried to start a fight with Harry during your own probationary trial. And Harry is still Harry.” She stiffened, seeing something behind Draco. He whirled around, herding her behind him, his mind running through a list of defensive spells, but it was just Ginny Weasley soaring over on her broom. 

She landed a few yards away, regarding Draco’s defensive posture with disdain. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Draco barked.

“I wasn’t fucking asking you.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione said, attempting to step out from behind Draco. He shifted to keep her behind him. “Draco? Please don’t.”

He forced himself to relax and let Hermione step around him. Ginny’s brow furrowed, and she took three quick steps forward towards Hermione. Too fast. He cast a shield charm without thinking. She ran straight into it and was knocked on her behind on the hard dirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he yelped, more to Hermione for hurting her friend than to the red haired girl who was seething on the ground. He let the shield charm fall and immediately his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground as well. The Weasley girl had hit him with a jelly-legs jinx. 

He growled. He couldn’t use any offensive or painful spells, but getting caught and charmed by a fourteen-year-old had given him some ideas. He shot a color-changing charm at her and her robes turned reddish orange, the same color as her hair. 

“Fuck you!” she shrieked, slashing her wand through the air, and suddenly there were dark flapping creatures everywhere, chittering and getting in his face and trying to fly down his throat. 

“Stop! STOP!” Hermione shouted, and the bat things were gone, and Ginny’s robes were back to their plain black. Hermione helped Ginny off the ground first. She cast the counterjinx to allow Draco to stand. She cradled her friend’s hand protectively, then tossed it away in a fit of fury. “What is wrong with the both of you? Everything was fine, until you started  _ duelling _ -”

“Be glad it was me and not Ron,” Ginny spat. “He’s mad enough to honor kill you.”

Hermione drew back, paling. “Ginny. Don’t say that.”

“The only way I could get away to check on you was to let him run tryouts on his own. I should get back.” She glared hatefully at Draco. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Hermione said. “Go back to tryouts. Draco and I were only talking.”

Ginny’s lip twitched, and then she swept around and sped off on her broom. 

Hermione sighed. “She was on the verge of being okay with you, and now she’ll hate you.”

“You’re not mad?” Draco asked cautiously. He would have thought that anyone who shot a spell at her friends was dead to her. 

“I guess,” Hermione said, rather indifferently. “She’s always been trigger happy, and all you did was knock her down and turn her robes orange. She’s probably more embarrassed than anything. Why did you do that?”

_ I don’t know how to explain in terms that won’t scare you. You don’t know it yet but you’re mine. I’m yours. If something happens to you then there will be nothing left for me. _ “She moved too fast. It was instinct.”

Hermione gave another little sigh. “The war is over, Draco.”

“I’m-”  _ -not sorry, _ he thought, although he knew he was supposed to be. He settled for, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

They shuffled, not looking at each other. “You feel like you can’t trust me right now,” Draco surmised. The words scraped in his throat.

Hermione opened her mouth as if to speak and then shook her head at whatever she had been about to say. “There was a moment where I thought we could be friends. I like you, maybe against my better judgement. I…  _ want _ to give you a chance. I don’t know if that’s the alpha and omega thing talking. But I can’t be friends with someone who’s going to act like Ron on steroids.”

Draco nodded blankly.

“Steroids are a muggle thing,” she added. “They’re drugs that enhance your muscles.”

“...Okay.”

“I need to think about this whole—whatever it is you’re proposing.”

“When will I know your answer?” Draco asked hoarsely. 

She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. They had grown cold again. “I’ll find you.”

* * *

“Whatcha got there?” Ginny asked. 

Hermione’s hands twitched, but she didn’t rush to hide the letter. Concealing it would make Ginny more curious. “Some notes I took on a piece of scrap.”

“You’ve been staring at it for a bit.” Ginny twirled her quill. “Anything I can help with?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said, folding it away. “It’s just some random thoughts. Can’t remember why I wrote it down.”

“Hm,” Ginny said, returning to her homework.

Hermione didn’t need to see the letter. She had already memorized its contents, the perfectly trained cursive, the confusing flurry of warmth it caused in her stomach.

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ I had a run in with Potter at St. Mungo’s today and he punched me in the face when I brought you up. Thought you might find that funny. He’s an alpha too, so now there’s six of us. I told him to write to you. I know how much you miss him. _

_ The professors decided to keep me in my room. They wanted to make sure I didn’t break my probation. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. I hope you’re well. It’s all I hope for.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Draco _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this for a while and i've been mulling over whether i should hold onto it in case i want to edit more later but i kinda don't think that's going to happen so here ya go. dunno when the next update is going to be, i'm extremely busy rn. but love and kisses as always <3
> 
> Edit: y’all are cracking me up you hate everyone except for the boy who picks fights with literally everyone he meets. guys I like him the best too but I must have really fucked up characterizing hermione huh. This is what I get for trying to tell a dramione story from draco’s pov


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